


From the Ashes

by pikachumaniac



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-07
Updated: 2013-09-26
Packaged: 2017-12-14 05:17:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 69,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/833185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pikachumaniac/pseuds/pikachumaniac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which M traded one MI6 operative for five agents, a peaceful Transition, and a young British hacker.</p>
<p>Silva is not one to forgive or forget debts owed.</p>
<p>
  <i>“You needed to know. You needed to know what it was like. You needed to know so that you could save yourself because you deserve better than to be tied to a world that doesn’t appreciate you for what you are. Never forget, Frederick, that you are not theirs. You are so much more than that.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Olivia Mansfield

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta-ed, not formally Brit-picked, and I may or may not have started writing this when I was ill, so my self-control (and sanity) was minimal at best. I also haven’t done any creative writing in years, so I am a bit rusty. For all of these things, I apologize in advance.
> 
> I’m hoping for a weekly update schedule, but I’m pretty terrible at keeping my promises even though I’ve written a significant part of the story already. I live in hope, however, foolish as that may be.

        Over the years, Olivia Mansfield has developed a reputation for making the hard choices, to the point that some would (do) call her a ‘stone cold bitch,’ and not always behind her back. She could have—perhaps should have—pointed out how unfair that was, how if she was a man she would have been praised rather than insulted, but Olivia has also developed a reputation for not wasting her breath. Because really, they’re not actually wrong, although their terminology could use some work. She does know how to make the necessary choices, especially the ones that no one else wants to make even though someone has to.

        She just happens to be that someone.

        She takes no pleasure out of it. There is no pride in the knowledge that she can be relied upon to do the right thing because doing the right thing should not need any acknowledgment. She weighs the possibilities and chooses the best outcome, with the full understanding that even the best outcomes come at a real, often human cost. And while she may not personally pay that cost, oftentimes the people she is responsible for do.

        She does suffer for it, of course she does. She isn’t heartless, despite what some people might think. She just rarely lets it show, having developed an excellent poker face, and likely that contributes to her reputation. But really, whatever people choose to call her is nothing compared to the very real consequences of the choices she makes on a daily basis, and so she lets them talk while she continues to do her job.

        At the moment, she is facing one of those very real consequences. Olivia is not sure if it was prison that has made the teen so agitated or if he was always like this, his eyes darting every which way even though the two of them are the only ones in the room. He doesn’t appear to be looking for an exit, but he also seems incapable of staying still, looking rather like a skittish deer who is trying to decide which way to run (or whether to run at all). She supposes that given what he has been through and what is about to come, she cannot really blame him.

        They sit in silence, separated by the table between them. He taps his fingers on the metal surface absent-mindedly, as if his fingers are resting on the keyboard of a computer that he does not have.  From what she has been told, he has not had access to a computer since he was brought to this country.

        “Mr. Coulter,” she finally says when the boy shows no apparent interest in starting up any conversation. She had been expecting him to ask who she was, how they had got him out of prison, and what they wanted from him, but he had said nothing since his release. She waits until he manages to look at her, even though he still won’t look her straight in the eyes, before getting right to the point. “We have arranged your release, with no little personal cost to ourselves. But he thought you might be worth it.”

        Frederick Coulter blinks rapidly, another nervous tick, no doubt. He seems to have several of them, but considering his age and how long he has been held by the Chinese, it is to be expected. His fingers continue to tap out arrhythmic patterns on the table as he asks, almost as if in a daze, “The hacker? He drove them mad, you know. They couldn’t figure out how he got into the system, only that he did.”

        She watches him carefully. “Did you tell them that?”

        “Me?” Coulter looks genuinely surprised by the question. “No. No, they wouldn’t let me near a computer.” Rather absurdly, he looks put out by this, as if that was the worst thing they had done to him. She knows it isn’t; she’d had a chance to read his medical file after they had arranged his release. “He’s arrogant, though.”

        “What makes you say that?”

        “They might not have known how he got into the system, but if he is good enough to get in, he should be good enough to do it without them knowing. He wanted them to know he was in.”

        Although Olivia shows nothing, inwardly she sighs. Of course. She had suspected that her agent had been treating this as a game, but it’s still disappointing to realize she is correct, given the consequences. “And why would he do something like that?”

        The question is more to herself than to anyone else, but Coulter frowns and repeats, “Because he’s arrogant.” As if that was all there was to it.

        Coulter is right, of course, but she doesn’t quite like this slight about her operative. She knows it isn’t personal because Coulter didn’t even know the man, but he had been _her_ agent. And while he had been the source of endless frustration to her, up to the very last moment, she was still the one who had been responsible for him. The last thing she needs is the judgment of this wisp of a teen, even if it’s not actually directed at her.

        It certainly feels that way, however.

        “He’s dead.” The lie is so easy, although it might not be a lie anymore. She always was a realist.

        Coulter stiffens, his fingers immediately halting. He does not, however, look away although he still won’t look her in the eyes.

        “He was caught, trying to find you,” she continues on, relentlessly. There’s no point in subtlety, not after everything that has already happened.

        “Why?” he asks quietly.

        “You caught his interest.” And her agent had always been impulsive. Sometimes it worked to his advantage, but she had always known it would be the end of him sooner than later. She had rather hoped it would be later than this, though.

        Coulter doesn’t say anything for a long while. Instead, he clasps his hands together, his fingers clenching nervously as his eyes continue to look every which way except at her. She doesn’t interrupt as Coulter obviously tries to process this information, and watches as he finally sighs and slumps back into the chair while his fingers resume their nervous tapping on the ugly metal table between them. “What do you want then? You want me to work for you then, to replace the one you lost?”

        How very straightforward – and perceptive – of him. He is certainly more than she had hoped for, especially given the circumstances in which he had been found, but that might have said more about her agent than it does about the boy sitting across from her. It is another reminder of what (who) she has given up, even if the bargain was more than fair. “You flatter yourself. He is not so easily replaced.”

        But she has made her choice, and now she must live with its consequences.

        “Then what do you need me for?”

        “To be perfectly honest, I only asked for you so I would have something to bargain with.” She leans back into the profoundly uncomfortable chair, resting her hands on her lap. In stark contrast to her relative stillness, Coulter cannot stop moving, as if he has been restrained for so long that the unused energy must come out in some way. He is paying close attention to her words, that much is obvious. “A way for the Chinese to save face, if you like. If they thought I was asking for too much, one agent for five agents and a British citizen that we were not supposed to know about, I would have been more than happy to settle for the five agents. Then at least they could point to the fact that they didn’t give into all of my demands. Luckily for you, they wanted him badly enough that they did not even try to bargain.”

        She’s pleased when he only looks understanding at this. While he’s obviously not happy with the information – no one would (or _should_ , if their judgment was to be trusted) like to be told that they are nothing more than an expendable pawn –he doesn’t resent her for her choices. “Well, it looks like you got more than you bargained for then. Congratulations. But you still have not answered my previous question. Now that you have got me out, I have to work for you? And if I don’t, you’ll… you’ll what, leave me here?”

        “Please, Mr. Coulter. As I said, we’ve already got you out, at a rather considerable price.”

        At this, Coulter abruptly stops his absent-minded tapping, and for the first time looks at her straight in the eyes. He doesn’t even blink as he says rather pointedly, “You just said that you would have been willing to settle for the five agents, so it really isn’t that considerable.”

        Olivia cannot help but smile at this, both at his words and his demeanor. She had gone over his file, and her agent was right: Frederick Coulter was brilliant, and worth getting out. But she had been worried that prison might have affected him in ways that would make him… less useful to MI6, even if he was willing to work for them. And while Coulter had obviously changed – she had a feeling that cynical streak had not been quite so present before – it had apparently manifested itself in a much better understanding of how the world worked. A useful trait to have, in their line of work. Now that she has seen for herself that he still has some spirit, and a great deal more common sense than someone his age would normally have, she is all the more determined to use her considerable leverage over him to ensure that he does find it in his best interests to work for them.

        Of course, she doesn’t propose it in such terms.

        “I won’t force you to work for us, if that is what you’re concerned about,” she says, although he only looks skeptical. “I prefer that the people working for me do so because they wish to, not because they have to. It saves in clean-up work later on.” It’s not quite a threat that hangs between them, but the implications are there nevertheless.

        “I’m sure it does,” Coulter replies blandly. “Which makes me wonder why you are bothering to offer me a semblance of a choice, as I am sure it would be easier to simply leave me here, if I was to say no.”

        It would be a lie to say that she does not feel offended by this accusation. “Please, Mr. Coulter. You are a British citizen under the protection of the government. We do take care of our own, surprising as that may be to you. Whatever you decide, you will be brought back home and be free to go on with your life.”

        “Until I get kidnapped by some other foreign government?” Coulter lets out a soft, bitter laugh. “Except this time, I imagine, there will not be any trades.”

        She raises her own eyebrows. “You are very cynical for one so young.”

        He smiles, a small, grim thing that is so out of place on someone who is, as she has just said, so very young. “Three months. I suppose it isn’t really that long, in the grand scheme of things but did you know that it can feel like an eternity?”

        “I better than most.” That is certainly the truth; she has lost more than her fair share of agents to similar situations. And yet it seems like such a hollow sentiment when it comes to this boy, who has at the age of seventeen gone through more than most would in a lifetime. Certainly, she is well aware that life is never fair, and that just because one is young doesn’t mean one is immune to the horrors the world seemed so ready to supply. Coulter is not even the youngest one she has dealt with in her tenure, although he appears to have handled it better than them. Hollow-eyed and scornful as he is, it is nothing compared to what she has seen others reduced to.

        And yet. There is something about him that makes him seem far more vulnerable than the people she normally deals with, and she doesn’t think it is simply his age. But as sympathetic a figure as he may seem, there’s the reality of his situation, and she knows that she cannot simply leave him to his life. With a mind like that, no one would be willing to do such a thing. She is certain that he realizes that too, and she wonders if he resents the world for that.

        “You have my word, Mr. Coulter,” she finally says. “We will never allow you to remain in the hands of any hostile entity.”

        Olivia wonders if she will be able to keep that promise. Judging from Coulter’s face, he does not seem the least bit reassured by this. “So you would simply have me killed instead. Brilliant.”

        “We would prefer to not have you take in the first place,” she replies, a little more sharply than she intended. “That said, if you worked for us, it would certainly be easier to prevent that from happening altogether.” Although not guaranteed. Never guaranteed, especially in their line of work, and she is not so stupid as to promise such a thing. Nor is Coulter stupid enough to believe such a promise in any case.

        “I’m sure it would.” His lips quirk slightly before he observes, “You are very good at using fear as a motivator.”

        “I am not trying to scare you, Mr. Coulter. I am simply laying out the facts. To say that you are good at what you do would be an understatement, and I expect that you will only get better. Of course, I am not the only one to recognize this, as the last three months have made starkly clear. You have caught the attention of some very dangerous people, but luckily for you, one of those people was my agent.” And what an agent he had been, only to discover that he too was disposable in the end. “An agent who was caught in the process of trying to find you, lest you forget.”

        “You say you are not trying to scare me, so you instead try to guilt me instead?”

        “Yes,” she replies bluntly. There is no reason to hide the truth when Coulter has proven himself to be reasonably intelligent. Besides, from what she has witnessed in this conversation, he has responded more positively to the truth than any false comfort. “Now, we could theorize about whether he would have got himself into some other mess, but that does not change the fact that he is the reason why you are here, and you are the reason why he is not. He thought there was something to you, and I cannot say that I disagree. So I am here, offering you a position, because I do not want to see you throw away the opportunity that he has given you.”

        “An opportunity,” he repeats, speaking more to himself than to her. “I wonder if he would see it that way.”

        Olivia would like to believe that he would. But she knows her agent better than most; he was driven less by what was demanded of him by Queen and country, and more by the desperate need to be the best. It was not the most ideal trait when it came to matters of national security, but it was one that she learned to use so very well until it had done him in. And when it finally had, she had made the best of it, in her usual fashion.

        She wonders if he has realized yet, what she has done. She wonders if he will ever understand, and if he will forgive her.

        (A selfish part of her hopes that he is dead before any of those questions have to be answered. After all, she knows what the answer will be.)

        But that is not her concern. She does not need understanding or forgiveness. She has made a decision, and now she has work to do. A successful transition, the return of five agents, and the employment of this boy. These are the things she must do now, and she has little time to engage in empty regrets.

        “We have made the necessary preparations to return you to England. We can give you some time to make up your mind, but the sooner you can make a decision, the-”

        “No need,” Coulter interrupts. “I’ll do it.”

        He doesn’t elaborate much further than that, and she accepts that readily. Whether he is agreeing because of fear, guilt, or something else altogether (she doubts it is loyalty; that seems to be one thing he has in common with her agent), they both know it does not matter. She gets to her feet, but does not bother to reach out a hand. She has a feeling he would not take it. “I am glad to hear it. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Coulter. I do look forward to your employment at MI6.”

        “Likewise,” he says automatically. Once again he is avoiding her eyes, as if he has already reverted back to that nervous, skittish creature that he had been at the start of their conversation, doing whatever is necessary to avoid being hurt. She supposes that it is only to be expected, although it is difficult to square with their verbal sparring only a few moments before.

        She makes a mental note to have the psychiatrists look over Coulter before he starts active duty.

        When it is apparent that he has nothing more to say, she makes her way to the door. Just as she is about to open the door, he asks quietly, “Who was he?”

        And right when she was thinking that he was never going to ask. She doesn’t turn to face him, so he doesn’t see her close her eyes as she reminds herself, one final time, that she really did make the right decision.

        “His name was Tiago Rodriguez,” she says. “And he was a brilliant agent.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On Q’s name: Because I like to believe that Q is named after his super awesome grandfather who ran around investigating and reporting the shit out of things, even if it meant getting the shit beat out of him sometimes. Coulter comes from _Criminal Justice_.


	2. Frederick Coulter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“Raoul Silva, at your service.” The man gives a mocking bow, quite an accomplishment given that he is still seated. Then he looks Frederick right in the eyes, and the full intensity of his madness nearly makes Frederick miss the next sentence. “But you might know me better as Tiago Rodriguez."_

        From the moment Frederick Coulter had started at MI6, he had never once looked back.

        Of course, starting was easier said than done. Looking back at their first conversation, he’s amazed that Mansfield – well, M, now – had offered him a position, let alone accepted his agreement to work for the agency. After all, he distinctly remembers being too mentally out of it to fully process what was going on, and being much too mouthy for his own good.

        Neither seems to be particularly desirable traits for someone working in national security. (Then again, it seemed that the longer one stayed at MI6, the more likely it is that there is _something_ seriously wrong with them. He had just got an earlier start than most people, but he always was an overachiever.)

        Still, he wasn’t allowed to start until after he had been cleared by the psych department. The early sessions were primarily dominated by awkward silences and much fidgeting on his end. There had been one particularly memorable session in which they played word association games, which he had for some reason taken as a challenge instead of an opportunity to prove that he was somewhat sane. By the end of that day, he had been pretty sure he was getting fired before he was even off probation.

        Instead, they had cleared him. Apparently the psych department wasn’t immune to madness themselves.

        As soon as he was deemed fit to start working with the various hazardous and explosive materials that were the staple of Q-branch, he was formally introduced to Q himself. It hadn’t been their first meeting; Q had sat in on a few of his sessions, although he never said anything. Frederick couldn’t help but notice that the psychiatrists were always a little twitchier when Q was there, and the sessions were always much shorter. If that wasn’t a reason to like the man, he didn’t know what was.

        It didn’t take long for them both to realize that they were cut from the same cloth. Frederick could have seen a thousand psychiatrists and never got truly better, but Q needed only a few weeks to make him feel… alive again. There was a distinct possibility that Q was just distracting him from his many, many issues, but after spending weeks confronting those issues with no success, he just didn’t care. Q challenged him, never treating him as a child but guiding him in a way that was not condescending. It helped that Q didn’t put much stock in seniority and experience, placing a far higher regard on intelligence and creativity, things that Frederick had in spades. Q put Frederick to work, gave him something to focus on other than the screaming nightmares, gave him distance from the bad memories until all that was left was the present, the future, and all the possibilities that came with it. And while Frederick never did share Q’s fascination for explosions (it just seemed so wasteful, although it certainly made the double-o agents as giddy as schoolchildren), Q made him want to make everything _better_ , whether it was computers, weapons, security systems, or guiding suicidal agents through death traps.

        And as long as he is trying to make everything better, he doesn’t have time to lose himself to the past.

        It is jarring, at times, to think that he has been at MI6 for nearly half of his life, but he has not regretted it for even a second. Sure, he cannot lay claim to having anything remotely resembling a social life – he’s insane, not delusional – but his work is more than enough to keep him satisfied. Granted, it could get exceedingly stressful, what with having national security at your fingertips, but it was a challenge that kept right on giving. And that was probably why Q likes him so much: they share the same, bizarre excitement at tackling the unknown.

        Of course, their excitement often translates into a rather horrible tendency of enabling each other to give into their worst impulses. It’s no wonder that M sometimes looks like she regrets even letting them into the same room together, although even she could probably be persuaded to admit that the department is better off for it. Despite their similarities, their interests are actually quite divergent if complementary, and Q is happy to let Frederick lead the team responsible for the computer networks since it leaves him more time with the tinkering (and explosives).

        Frederick, in turn, thrives in the role. He had never considered himself leadership material, but he’s surrounded by good people who respect him, in part because Q likes him, in part because he’s been there longer than most of them despite his age, and primarily because he is damned good at what he does. While being good at something didn’t necessarily mean being good at being in charge, it turns out Frederick is quite adept at handling his team, knowing when to delegate and when to step in without stepping on any toes. He learned from the best, after all, although he hasn’t quite mastered Q’s ability to weasel out additional funds from finance or M’s ability to cut off all protests with an icy stare. He thinks he manages quite well though, considering how his youthful appearance is _still_ the running joke of Q-branch.

        However, with the leadership role come the consequences, as Frederick learns on the day 007 dies and MI6 loses a hard drive containing the secret identity of every NATO agent currently embedded in the field.

* * *

        Frederick likes to think that if he hadn’t been so distracted by the largest security breach in the history of MI6, he might have been more prepared for what comes next.

        Even though the theft is not his fault and there was nothing he could have done to prevent the loss, he is still in charge of cyber security, which means that his team has the joyless task of exhausting every possible avenue to track down that thrice-damned list. What follows (after his initial screaming about who was _stupid_ enough to compile such a list in the first place, and then put it someplace for it to get _stolen_ ) is the second longest three months of his life.

        The worst part about it is that even after three months of doing nothing but search for the list, they are no closer to figuring out where it is. It’s simply vanished, and every time they think they might have a clue about its whereabouts, it disappears all over again. It’s an exercise in futility, and Frederick has spent his recent days (and nights) hoping that maybe the list never existed in the first place, and M is just playing a cruel joke on him. Because the alternative is that there’s someone who is better than him, and he’s not sure his ego can take it. So rather than fall into despair, he throws himself into the work, telling himself that he can sleep when the list has been found or he’s dead, whichever comes first.

        The result is 80-hour workweeks, in which he has little time to _breathe_ , let alone eat or sleep. So he thinks he can be forgiven for being a little befuddled when he walks into his flat for the first time in four days and finds himself blinking rather stupidly at the six heavily armed intruders currently occupying his flat. All of whom are now pointing guns at him.

        This… is a little awkward.

        Sadly, the first thing he feels isn’t fear, but annoyance. All he wants is a shower with actual water pressure and to sleep on something that isn’t an army cot or the lumpy sofa in Q’s office. Being confronted with this mess in his current state of mind just isn’t _fair_. So it takes him a moment longer than it should to work up the appropriate level of panic, at which point someone closes the door behind him before rather rudely prodding him forward with the muzzle of a gun until he is standing before his favorite armchair.

        It’s occupied by a man with a dye job gone horribly wrong.

        As distracted as he is by the hair, he can’t overlook the way the man is looking him over like cattle being bought for slaughter. It doesn’t get any better when the man flat out _beams_. Frederick has never seen such a disturbing sight, and he’s seen quite a bit more than his age would suggest.

        “My god, you haven’t changed at all. Still just a _child_.”

        Under normal circumstances, Frederick would have given the man the same response he did the other thousands of times someone commented on the fact that he looks like he has yet to reach voting age. Honestly, it’s very tiresome and not that original. But since he is currently surrounded by _men with guns_ , he settles for glaring.

        “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he says politely. Frederick was raised to be polite, and he has found that social niceties can oftentimes defuse a tense situation. Granted, he doubts that saying ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ will be enough to get him out of this mess, but it doesn’t hurt to be nice. Even villains find it a little harder to shoot people who are being polite. Or at least they might be more willing to forego shooting him in the face, which would make identifying his body all the more difficult.

        “Not in person, no. But I know _all_ about you.” Because that wasn’t creepy at all, a part of him wants to quip. Either sanity or well-placed fear stops him from voicing that little gem, although he’s also distracted by the way the man’s smile manages to get even more disturbing. He would back away except there are two men behind him, blocking his way, and then he finds himself being held in place by mere words as the man says, as if reciting a school lesson, “Frederick Coulter, age 32. Middle child with a loving family, all of whom… ooh, _tragically_ died in a plane accident when you were thirteen. Taken in by a distant aunt who left you alone while you did what all stupid children do and started engaging in some rather dangerously illegal hacking, catching the attention of the Chinese at the age of sixteen. They took you, probably without your aunt’s permission but you have never been sure, and you found yourself a guest of their cells for three months. And there you would have continued to rot if not for MI6’s most _generous_ offer. How am I doing so far?”

        He responds with a positively delightful strangled sound. The man chuckles and takes that as an invitation to keep spilling out his personal details, all of which should have been buried under layers of security if it wasn’t only available on burned paperwork. “Started at MI6 at the tender age of seventeen after you finally passed your psych evaluations. Q took quite to you – of course he did, he always did like the clever ones – and under his tutelage you rose through the ranks. You have an eye for design, but your preference is for the computers, and you are currently in charge of keeping the networks secure from probing minds. And you have done a marvelous job with that, well done you, which has only helped fuel the rampant speculation that you are next in line for the quartermaster position.”

        The man leans back, a smug smile on his face. “Am I missing anything?”

        He opens his mouth. Closes it. And then, because his brain is on auto-pilot and he has no self-control at the moment, he says the first thing that comes to mind, “I used to have a cat.”

        It’s so goddamned absurd but he has to say something – anything – to break the suffocating silence.

        At least it doesn’t seem to be expected, judging from the look of surprise (bemusement) on the man’s face. But it’s nothing to congratulate himself about, especially when the man recovers quickly and laughs. “Ah, yes. I believe his name was Ariel. Had a bit of a Shakespeare phase, hmm? Died nine months ago from cancer, poor thing. You really do have the worst luck.”

        And because Frederick’s mouth seems determined to demonstrate the truth of that statement, it decides that this is the perfect moment to snap out of the shock and start running off before his brain can even think to stop it. “Who the hell are you?”

        Because social niceties be damned, he just doesn’t have the energy to deal with this shit, not when he’s running on no sleep and has spent three months chasing shadows and oh yes, currently has guns pointing at him. Besides, judging from the cheerfully psychotic glint in the man’s eyes, being polite isn’t going to prevent a bullet to the brain, if that is what he has in mind (it probably is).

        “Raoul Silva, at your service.” The man gives a mocking bow, quite an accomplishment given that he is still seated. Then he looks Frederick right in the eyes, and the full intensity of his madness nearly makes Frederick miss the next sentence. “But you might know me better as Tiago Rodriguez.”

* * *

        For the briefest of moments, the world seems to stop. If Frederick thinks he was in shock before, it is nothing compared to what he feels now. He cannot breathe, cannot think, simply cannot process what is happening. Everything seems to go blank, except for the dead man seated mere feet from him.

        And then, all too quickly, it comes spinning back so fast that he feels dizzy and mentally whiplashed. Tiago Rodriguez – no, Raoul Silva – seems to be enjoying this far too much as he asks, with false brightness, “So, Frederick. Or Freddie. Your grandfather was called Freddie, I do believe. Can I call you Freddie?”

        He doesn’t ask how Silva knows what his grandfather was called, and he doesn’t ask how if Silva knows that then why doesn’t the man also know that he hates nicknames with extreme prejudice. He resists, if only because this doesn’t seem to be the right time to raise a fuss over such details. He’s still trying to process what the hell is going on as Silva continues to smile brightly at him. It doesn’t take a genius to realize that it’s the brightness of insanity staring him in the face, and that there is no way whatsoever that this is going to go well for him.

        “No, now that I am taking a good look at you, you look like a Frederick. Or a Q. But I’m getting ahead of myself, of course.” Silva laughs, as if having a conversation with a corpse about his promotion possibilities is _completely normal_ , but the lightness of the words are not reflected in Silva’s eyes. In fact, there’s something positively feral about the look on his face, and it makes Frederick feel like an animal whose leg is caught in a trap. He already feels the urge to gnaw off a limb, but that would probably only make Silva laugh.

        “She said you were dead,” he finally manages to say, wishing that saying it out loud would make it true.

        He had spent years wondering who Tiago Rodriguez was, the agent that M had exchanged for five others and himself. He had looked up his file, of course, but words could never fully capture who the actual person was. Even when he stopped actively thinking about it, it was always in the back of his mind even though logically, he knew it didn’t matter. The man was dead, after all. Except he wasn’t. Because he is sitting _right there_ , in Frederick’s flat, as if it was perfectly normal for dead agents to come round for tea and biscuits.

        “And you never thought to question it?” Silva makes a disapproving sound. “For shame, Frederick. I expected more of you. You of all people should know not to take anything that old woman says on blind faith.”

        “There was never any reason to question it.” He doubts that will mollify Silva, but that’s all there is to it. There was every reason to believe that Tiago Rodriguez was dead, even if M hadn’t said so. He had been handed over to the Chinese as a spy, and no one was going to be making any trades to get him back. Frederick had always expected that if the Chinese didn’t kill Rodriguez, Rodriguez would do the deed himself, once he realized what had happened. Logically speaking, the man sitting in his living room should not have been alive. But then, maybe he wasn’t; Frederick has a sinking suspicion that the man before him, this Raoul Silva, would no longer be recognizable as the MI6 agent M had once called brilliant.

        “Did she tell you that she was the one who turned me over?” Silva sounds curious, even though Frederick has a feeling he already knows the answer to that particular question. He wonders if Silva just wants to hear someone say (confess) it.

        “Not in so many words.” Because Frederick isn’t stupid. He had meant what he told M: the Chinese didn’t know who was hacking their systems. They just knew it was happening. If Rodriguez had been turned over, it was because someone did so – and the only one in a position to do that was M. He had never asked her about it though, in part because he didn’t want confirmation of his suspicions, but mostly because he didn’t need to.

        It isn’t that he doesn’t trust M… well, he doesn’t. Not that she expects him to, in any case. But he understands her. He has admired her since the day he met her, appreciated her brutal honesty, but he also knows that if there was anyone who would cut someone loose without a second’s hesitation, it’s M. He’s seen it before, most recently with 007 and of course… with Tiago Rodriguez. One agent for six and a peaceful transition. Even putting aside his obvious personal stake in it, he knows it was a good trade.

        He doubts that Silva sees it that way.

        “I myself did not want to believe it,” Silva stage whispers, as if he is imparting a great secret. “I waited. I was loyal. I kept her secrets, kept my silence, and I _waited_. Until finally, even I had to accept that it was no accident that no one had come to rescue me. That I had suffered in vain, for a woman who _betrayed_ me, who gave me up when it suited her. Do you know what they did to me?”

        He doesn’t want to answer, doesn’t want to acknowledge the wrong that was done to this man, but a slight nod from Silva and he feels the gun at the small of his back. He swallows. “They tortured you.”

        “Excruciatingly,” Silva agrees, satisfied that he is willing to play the game, even if it has to be at gunpoint. The gun is removed, although the threat is not. “By comparison, what they did to you was a… walk in the park, shall we say? You see, they wanted you to do things for them. That’s why they took you, no? And we all know that there’s only so much you can do to a person when you still need them sane and functional enough to work for you. But when they want information, or to just torture for the sake of torturing… oh, the delights the human mind can come up with!” His face darkens, and his voice turns harsh. “That is what the old lady left me to. Do I have any doubts she knew what would happen? No. Tell me, who leaves a person to that type of fate? Who does that?”

        “For Queen and country,” Frederick says before he can stop himself. But that’s it, isn’t it? Everything M does – it’s never personal, never out of vindictiveness or spite. She simply does what she thinks is best for Britain.

        Apparently Tiago Rodriguez never got that lesson, or rather he figured it out too late. Frederick has to work hard not to flinch when Silva stares at him, before the man throws back his head and _laughs_ , and he isn’t sure if it’s out of amusement or despair.

        It takes a while for Silva to stop laughing, but when he does the sound cuts off so abruptly that there isn’t even an echo. Silva shakes his head, lips still stretched in that horrific smile. “Oh my, you _are_ clever. Mother was right to recruit you.” Silva pauses, as if thinking to himself. “It almost makes it worth it.”

        There is no need to ask what ‘it’ is. Silva hasn’t brought it up, but ‘it’ hangs between them, and Frederick swallows. “You don’t actually believe that.”

        “You’re right, I don’t.” Silva taps his fingers on his knee, watching Frederick almost hungrily. “You could make it up to me, you know. Come work for me.”

        He has to admit that is a bit of a surprise. “And why would I want to do that?” He doubts Silva will be offering a better retirement plan.

        “Because you know the truth now.” He’s always known the truth. “It’s only a matter of time. Why wait for the old lady to betray you first?”

        Why indeed? He’s wondered the same thing himself, enough times that the answer is surprisingly simple: because it isn’t just about her. Maybe if Silva had approached him earlier, maybe it would be different. But now there’s Q and his team and the entirety of Q-branch really because even if he has been there longer than seventy-five percent of them, he’s still younger than them and they take care of him. Sure, he reacts violently to coddling, but that _doesn’t stop them_.

        And Silva? Tiago Rodriguez might be the catalyst for getting him out, but as far as he is concerned, he owes the man nothing. All those years ago, M sought to guilt him into taking the job. It hadn’t worked, although she might think it did. He’d taken the job for reasons of his own, and none of them had to do with any sort of _guilt_.

        He just hadn’t had anywhere else to go. Not until Q-branch.

        “I’m not interested,” he says flatly. “I like my job. For one thing, it’s less likely to get me killed than you are.”

        He always did have a bad habit of reacting to stressful situations in precisely the wrong ways, but when someone starts to challenge him, he really can’t help but fight back. The psychiatrists had enjoyed pointing that out multiple times.

        “Psh, death is always around the corner in our line of work,” Silva replies with a dismissive wave.

        “Pardon my correction, Mr. Silva, but I believe our lines of work are very different.”

        Silva rewards him with a patronizing smile, “Don’t tell me you’re one of those boring patriotic types who still believe that espionage is in some way superior to good old-fashioned terrorism? The only difference between the two is that one is sanctioned by the government.”

        “Surely you didn’t break into my flat to quibble over semantics.”

        “But it’s true!” Silva protests. “You lie, you kill, you betray. But if you do it for the right people, you’re rewarded and praised in the history books. But it all leads down the same road. Tell me the truth, now. What will you do when they betray you like they did me?”

        “I don’t plan on giving them any reason to ‘betray’ me in the first place.” He’s lying, of course. He’s worked at MI6 long enough to understand the precarious nature of his employment contract. Certainly, it’s not inevitable, but no one is invulnerable. He’s watched M raked over the coals over the last three months because of the lost list. He’s seen agents given orders to kill their own, whether on purpose or accidentally. And he himself is the product of a trade. No one is safe, if it will benefit the country. Some are just more willing to pay the cost than others.

        Not that he is one of them. He wonders if he will end up like Silva, should it come down to that.

        “Oh my dear boy, surely you can’t be that naïve? You said it yourself; if it is for the good of Queen and country, Mommy will give up her own soul in the name of loyalty.”

        “Then I’ll just have to make them need me more than I need them, won’t I?” he tosses out carelessly. As if anyone believes it is that simple.

        Silva lets out a scornful laugh, “No one is irreplaceable.”

        “Yes, you found that out first hand, didn’t you?” God, he needs to stop talking. That’s his problem, that’s always been his problem – he’s an arrogant shit who doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut, even when his ability to breathe is on the line.

        But rather than react as a normal person would when baited, Silva just folds his hands together and watches Frederick intently as he muses, “I did, didn’t I? Thanks to you.”

        Before he can protest, Silva shushes him. This time, he manages to hold his tongue for a change as Silva continues, “But that just means you and I understand, Frederick. We understand how far loyalty goes in this game. And more importantly, I understand _you_. We both know you’re not in this out of some misguided patriotism. You’re there because you’re _bored_. Because you have nowhere better to be. I understand the feeling, I really do. In which case,” Silva pauses, for dramatic effect no doubt, “my proposal should be rather appealing to you. We can tear down worlds, you and I. This world is becoming so dependent on its computers and electronic gadgets. It makes it so easy to take the world hostage. Don’t you want to be a part of that, a part of something bigger than maintaining the status quo at Mummy’s behest?”

        There are so many things he could say. Silva is right about one thing – he isn’t blindly loyal. He may still be considered young in this line of work, but he understands the darker side of espionage just fine, thank you very much. But that doesn’t mean that he’s going to turn his back on the people he has worked with on a whim, or that he has any interest in making the world burn. He likes the world as is, and he’ll be damned if he’s lumped together in the same category as Raoul Silva.

        So he simply says, “No.”

        Silva waits for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t because as far as he is concerned, he doesn’t owe Silva any explanation. Instead, he stares back defiantly, although deep down he’s terrified because he just knows this is going to end so badly.

        “A shame,” Silva finally says. Then he is getting to his feet, stretching lazily before complaining, “You know, I didn’t actually expect you to be this fun.”

        He _really_ doesn’t like the sound of that, particularly when Silva elaborates, “In fact, I was planning on just shooting you after you turned me down and be done with it. But now you’ve made that _difficult_.”

        “I’m sorry?” he replies (he’s not sorry at all), trying to sound as if they aren’t talking about shooting him in the face. Although given the man’s tone, which is positively _giddy_ , he has to wonder if he might prefer being shot to whatever Silva is now planning.

        He jumps as if he really has been shot when Silva abruptly claps his hands together, “I have an idea! Because I am so generous, I’ll give you a chance to change your mind. Just one chance though! We can’t have people thinking that I am too changeable.”

        “I’m sure no one thinks that,” he says warily. Or at least no one would be stupid enough to voice that thought.

        Silva chuckles softly, taking a step towards him. He wants to move back, wants to keep a minimum distance of ten feet and an _electric chain link fence_ between them, but he has nowhere to go and it’s all too easy for Silva to stop right in front of him. He flinches as the man runs the back of one broad hand against his cheek.

        “You really aren’t what I expected.” He doesn’t want to know what Silva was expecting. “I think I’m going to enjoy this.”

        The sentiment is _not_ mutual.

        He can’t help but let out a sigh of relief as Silva starts to pull away, but it’s cut off when a hand grabs his hair and yanks him forward viciously. He doesn’t even have time to yelp when Silva leans so close that lips are almost pressed against his ear and Silva whispers, “Don’t tell anyone about this little conversation, or I might have to change my mind about killing you. And that would be a real shame, wouldn’t it?”

        He shudders. Apparently that is enough of an answer for Silva, who laughs and pushes him away. He’s barely able to keep his balance, and only fear of what Silva will do to him if he bores the man by fainting like a damsel in distress keeps him from keeling right over when Silva says, “Until next time, clever boy.”

* * *

        For the longest time after Silva and his men pack up their guns and leave, Frederick just stands there, staring blankly at the wall. All thoughts of a shower and sleep have fled; the only thing he feels like doing is fleeing himself. To flee right towards M – that is what Silva expects him to do, isn’t it? But expected or not, and despite Silva’s threat, he needs to tell M, needs to tell her _now_ , but-

        As if on cue a little red dot blossoms on his chest. A sniper. Fantastic.

        He forces himself to stay calm, barely acknowledging the threat until the red vanishes. Only then does he stumble his way towards his bedroom, although he knows he’s not safe there either. Silva has to be watching; if he was to try to contact M now, who knows what fresh horrors Silva would rain down on him. He doesn’t trust his technology either; Tiago Rodriguez was a hacker, a good one, and Frederick can only assume that his skills have improved since being turned over. And in any case, Silva wouldn’t even need to be that good of a hacker because the man had _been in his flat_ , which would make it all the easier to tap into his networks and his computers and _god_ , _the man had been in his flat._

        He’s trying not to panic, but his hands tap nervously in a way he thought he had given up since China except apparently old habits die hard, especially when under so much pressure. He wants to run except he knows he can’t, he wants to tell M but he can’t do that either. All he can do is sit and wait until the sun rises and he leaves for work because surely Silva isn’t expecting him to stay in his flat until the man decides to visit again? It’d be too suspicious; everyone would know something was wrong because he _never_ misses work, not even when he had pneumonia, and he definitely wouldn’t miss work when MI6 is in a crisis because that’s what IV drips were invented for. And once he’s in the confines of MI6… well, he isn’t naïve to think that makes him invulnerable, but it seems more likely he’ll be able to warn someone about what was happening before being shot.

        _Tomorrow_ , he tells himself finally as he sinks into the corner of his bedroom, head buried in his arms. It’s the best he can do without ending up a blood splatter on the ground, although he has no idea how he’ll get through the night. All he can do is shut his eyes and remind himself, desperately, _Tomorrow_.

* * *

        The next day, MI6 explodes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The cat is, of course, named for Ben Whishaw’s role in The Tempest, in which one can admire how artfully he crosses his legs.


	3. Frederick Coulter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“He doesn’t go by Tiago Rodriguez anymore. He’s Raoul Silva now. And I think he might be a bit insane, or was he always like that?”_
> 
> _M purses her lips, although whether it’s at his flippant tone or because she doesn’t want to answer his question, he’s not sure. Instead, she asks, “What did he tell you?”_
> 
> _“That you betrayed him.”_

        Frederick is in the Tube when it happens, along with what feels like half of London. He’s terrified and a nervous wreck, and probably looks like a crazed, homeless person on account of not having showered or slept or done anything except hyperventilate the previous night. It earns him several dirty looks and wrinkled noses but no additional space, which is unfortunate for everyone in his near vicinity when the train comes to a sudden standstill. Something about an electrical failure, the voice over the intercom says, but even that voice sounds perplexed at the inexplicable malfunction. A malfunction which not only knocks out the train’s ability to move but what seems like most of the lights and the train’s communication systems, meaning that they’re in for a very, very long and uncomfortable wait until rescue comes.

        Even if he wasn’t in a state of paranoia, Frederick knows this is no ordinary outage. But there isn’t anything he can do about it except to try to calm his panic, which is a difficult task when everyone surrounding him is starting to get panicky too. He can’t blame them; there’s a certain terror of being underground, in the semi-darkness surrounded by strangers, with no way of communicating with the outside world. He doesn’t even want to imagine what would happen if all the lights had gone out; nothing good, needless to say.

        The seconds tick by like hours, the minutes like days. One young woman tries gamely to keep everyone’s spirits up, but after a couple of hours even she falls silent. There’s nothing to do but wait, with no idea of how long the wait will last. It’s _suffocating_ , but like the last night, all Frederick can do now is wait and wonder what he will find when he reaches MI6.

* * *

        Things quickly go from bad to worse. One would think that being stuck in the Tube during rush hour for four hours, surrounded by panicked people as the lights occasionally flicker on and off like some sort of sadistic haunted mansion would be difficult to top, but then Frederick reaches the smoking ruins of MI6 and Melissa tells him that Q is dead.

        He stares at Melissa for several long moments, completely incapable of comprehending what she is saying. He opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again, trying to come up with some semblance of a response. All that manages to come out is a bleary, “What?”

        Melissa is shaking, her arms wrapped around herself as she says, “Q, he… he was waiting for his appointment with M when it happened, and he… he’s _dead_ , Frederick, he’s-”

        She breaks down at that, sobbing so hysterically that she can’t continue. Frederick just stares at her. He wonders vaguely if he should try to comfort her, but he’s frozen in place and he feels so numb and Q is dead and how could this have happened and is this his fault? If he had tried to tell M last night instead of waiting like a coward until the morning, could he have prevented this? Did he, through his inaction, kill Q?

        He doesn’t know. There are a lot of things he doesn’t know.

        But one thing he does know is that Q is dead, and if Silva’s goal really was to convince him to work for the man, a grave miscalculation has been made. This is something Frederick can never forgive.

        “Mr. Coulter,” his name is called out sharply. He turns from the still weeping Melissa to see M and Tanner heading towards him, both looking stony-faced. He supposes he should feel relieved that they are unhurt, but all he can do is stare at them as if they are a pair of vengeful poltergeists.

        Tanner is the first to reach him, placing a hand on his shoulder. The gesture is meant to be steadying, but he can’t help but startle at the touch as he remembers just for a moment the broad hand on his cheek and a whispered threat in his ear. It takes everything in him not to wrench away.

        The urge to flee disappears quickly though, and then it’s the numbness again as he looks back at the wreckage. Is Q still in there? Has his body been moved? Could it even be moved anymore…?

        “Mr. Coulter,” M repeats, a little more gently this time but still firm. “Come with us, if you will.”

        Frederick nods dumbly, following after M like a small child as they make their way to a waiting vehicle. Tanner brings up the rear, perfectly in place in case he decides to do something stupid, like run or faint. The numbness is giving way to nausea, but the fear of what M will do to him if he vomits on her back stops him from getting sick. Once they’re in the car though, all bets will be off.

        He ends up in the backseat with M; Tanner drives them, although he has no idea where they’re heading. _Not to Headquarters_ , he thinks a tad wildly.

        “What happened?” he finally manages to get out, once it becomes apparent that no one else is going to speak first. He can understand; he doesn’t want to be the first to speak either, but he _has_ to know.

        “They used M’s personal computer to decrypt the drive,” Tanner explains. There’s no need to ask _which_ drive he’s talking about; there’s only one that matters at the moment. “We don’t know for sure what happened after that, but it seems like they were able to trigger the explosion from inside the system. Q-branch is trying to sort it out now.”

        Frederick stares at the back of Tanner’s head. “Shit.” He doesn’t have it in him to try and be eloquent anymore as the full meaning of Tanner’s explanation hits him like the proverbial sack of bricks. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.” His system, the one he was supposed to be in charge of, the security networks. Someone had not only got into them, but were able to use the system to trigger a goddamn explosion. An explosion that had killed Q and who knows how many more, a system that was supposed to _prevent_ this sort of thing from happening, not _cause_ them. “ _Shit_.”

        He wants to bury his face in his hands so that he doesn’t have to look at the others anymore, but he supposes that he owes them enough to look them in the eye when they fire him. Or dispose of him in some other way, since generally you don’t drive around soon to be ex-employees unless you’re looking for a place to dump the body.

        There are excuses for his failure, of course. He could point to the fact that almost all of their resources had been diverted for the last three months into finding the list. But that is no justification, not when Q is dead because he didn’t do the job that he was supposed to. He didn’t find the list and he didn’t keep MI6 safe, so what good is he? He should have been able to prevent this, no matter what else was going on because that was his _job_ and more importantly, because there were people who depended on him to get it done right. And not in the oh dear, we lost this contract and millions of pounds sort of way, but the oh dear, the person who helped make you whole again is _dead_ and it’s _all your fault_ sort of way.

        The nausea is turning into full-blown hysteria, and he’s reached the point where he couldn’t care less about having a panic attack in front of his boss (especially since she’s not going to be his boss for much longer). It might be embarrassing but at this point, what does it matter? After what has happened, what he has _allowed_ to happen, what does it matter?

        Abruptly, he realizes that M is talking to him, and it takes him a moment to actually focus long enough to comprehend her words. Unfortunately, when he finally manages to concentrate, he realizes that nothing she is saying makes any sense.

        “Your team’s priority will be to continue tracking down who has that list. We expect that your team will be able to use any new information from this attack to track down that list. You, of course, will be needed for your other duties, so I hope they’re up for the task while you handle the logistics for the move.”

        He blinks at M, parroting, “My other duties?” He can’t be entirely sure, but right now it sounds like they’re talking about his future at MI6, which they all know is a complete impossibility given what he has just done. The more reasonable explanation for what he is hearing is that he is in shock right now and suffering a mental breakdown, complete with auditory hallucinations.

        M barely seems to register his confusion as she explains tersely, “Well, you can hardly expect us to stay in our current location given what has happened. You’ll need to move everything to our new headquarters. We’re heading there now so you can take a look at it and decide how you want to set it up. The bunker isn’t-”

        “I’m sorry,” he interrupts because M’s words are still making absolutely _zero sense_. “But… isn’t this a job for Q?”

        “Q is a title that is passed onto the successor, in this case you.”

        Frederick is fairly certain that by this point, he’s gaping at M and probably looks absolutely ridiculous, but he can’t help it. He’s still trying to process the fact that he apparently still has a _job_ , and now they’re talking about… what, giving him the entire department to run? Are they serious, given that he has just failed spectacularly by allowing someone to hack into _his_ security systems and blow up MI6? That would usually be a cause for termination (in more ways than one), not promotion. He decides that rather than simply ask if M is insane, which she clearly is not – current conversation notwithstanding – he’ll take the more delicate approach by asking, “Isn’t that a bit premature, ma’am? Whitehall still-”

        “Oh sod that. We both know there isn’t time for any political wrangling. Q intended for you to succeed him, we all know that. There’s no need for you to quibble over the details; Tanner will handle the bureaucrats. You need to focus on getting the department set up so you can figure out who has that list and hacked our systems, and-”

        “He’s supposed to be dead.” Because Frederick has absolutely no doubts about who did this. “ _You told me he was dead._ ”

        Silence. There were probably better ways of bringing this up, but at this point, he doesn’t have the time nor the energy to figure out how. Frederick can see Tanner’s eyes in the mirror, and the man looks understandably concerned about his sanity. M, on the other hand, looks just a shade paler, which is the closest to surprise she gets. But the message is clear: M understands exactly what he is saying.

        He knew she would because this is more or less the only thing that he and M share. Although Frederick has been working under M for fifteen years, he’s never had any meaningful contact with her outside of his initial recruitment. Certainly, he had seen her every now and then, even exchanged occasional – and very _short_ – pleasantries, but practically speaking he worked with Q-branch. And as long as Q-branch kept the agents well-equipped with explosive goodies and didn’t explode anything themselves, they were generally left to their own devices. Even after Frederick was assigned primary responsibility in securing the networks, he still answered to Q, not M.

        But although it has been fifteen years, separated by countless missions and emergencies and whatnot, neither has forgotten what brought them together in the first place, the only thing – _person_ – they are connected through.

        “Stop the car,” M orders Tanner, her voice tense. “Pull over and wait outside.”

        It says a lot about Tanner that the man doesn’t ask any questions, doesn’t even raise an inquiring eyebrow at this bizarre instruction. Instead, the man does as he is told, finding a place to park before he stoically gets out into the freezing cold, leaving them to their own demons. M barely waits for the door to shut before she turns back to Frederick to demand, “You think this was his work?”

        “Either that or there have been some interesting coincidences,” he replies much more calmly than he feels. “He came to see me.”

        “When?”

        There’s no point in hiding it. “Last night.”

        M says nothing, doesn’t even ask why he failed to bring this up earlier. Doubtless, she already knows why. He swallows, and continues, “He doesn’t go by Tiago Rodriguez anymore. He’s Raoul Silva now. And I think he might be a bit insane, or was he always like that?”

        M purses her lips, although whether it’s at his flippant tone or because she doesn’t want to answer his question, he’s not sure. Instead, she asks, “What did he tell you?”

        “That you betrayed him.”

        He doesn’t elaborate beyond that. It’s fairly self-explanatory. What had happened in Hong Kong… they could tell themselves that it was necessary, that it was for the greater good, and they would be right. But when it came down to the personal level, was there any other way of looking at it?

        Necessity and the greater good don’t count for much when you were the one being tortured.

        “What did he want then?”

        Frederick shrugs slightly, trying to sound casual even though he still shudders at last night’s conversation. There was just something about the man, something so dark and twisted – cliché as it was – that really did make him think that Tiago could not have been quite right in the head either. All of that made the man far more dangerous than his eccentric appearance would suggest; it was hard to predict what someone so mentally unstable could do. Silva had proven that today, effortlessly striking at the heart of MI6 through his brazen act of terrorism. “To kill you, probably. He made no attempt to hide how much he hates you now.”

        Except it isn’t just that. If Silva just wanted to kill M, he could have easily got away with a bullet to the chest. This explosion, combined with Silva’s bizarre introduction of himself to Frederick, was meant to be something more. The man was obviously as arrogant as he was fifteen years ago, except this time there was nobody who was going to be trading him away. Silva was acting on his own now, for his own purposes, and with no constraints or loyalties to hold him back.

        Perhaps that was the most terrifying thing about this mess.

        In contrast, M doesn’t so much as twitch at this information. One would think that even the head of MI6 would be allowed to show some concern over the fact that a murderous, psychotic ex-agent with a personal vendetta was after her, but M has the poker face down to an art form. He almost wants to marvel about it, except instead he finds himself adding, “He also asked me to work for him.”

        This at least gets her attention, although she still doesn’t look surprised. “I hope you said no.”

        “I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t.” Although logically speaking, he shouldn’t be here to begin with. If he had any sense of self-preservation, he would have hopped onto the nearest boat and fled the country. Maybe the reason why he didn’t was because he knows that running wouldn’t let him off the proverbial hook, and the only thing he would be inviting was a couple of missiles or a pirate attack. Possibly both. “Did you know he was still alive?”

        It’s not an accusation, although it could be one. Luckily M doesn’t take it as one; she sighs, shaking her head, “I had… considered the possibility. But I always assumed. There was never any reason to think that he was still alive.”

        “That’s what I told him.” It hadn’t done much good. “He’s coming after you. The list, the explosion… it’s all a message for you, isn’t it?”

        “And for you as well,” M points out. “Why else would he pay you a house visit, or make sure you were not in MI6 when the explosion happened?”

        It’s probably too much to hope that Silva is just very persistent when it comes to job offers. But M is right; as much as he would like to pretend that this is all about M, and that he isn’t involved except as a glorified-slash-convenient messenger boy, he knows that isn’t the case. Last night’s visit was far too personal for that, and he might as well face the truth of the danger he now faces, even if a part of him rages that it _shouldn’t have anything to do with him_. He might have been the catalyst, but he never _asked_ for any of this to happen.

        But even if it shouldn’t involve him, it doesn’t change the fact that it has, and it’s affecting the people around him. It’s strange. He always thought that with his family gone and no time for romantic entanglements (or any social interactions, really), he didn’t have much to be used against him. Silva had very quickly shown him the error of that train of thought, and there’s no going back from here. “He thinks I owe him, since you turned him over when he was looking for me.”

        That one _might_ be an accusation. It’s not really M’s fault (and it’s not like he hasn’t benefited from her decision), but all those years ago, Mansfield had used the same argument on him. And maybe it isn’t fair, but Frederick isn’t in the mood to be fair when he’s caught up in the middle of a very dangerous game he shouldn’t be in.

        She doesn’t rise to the bait though, except to say, “You will need a protective detail then, except we can barely afford that what with the chaos. Best you stay within MI6 then.”

        “Not exactly different from the last three months then,” he replies dryly. Not that he minds. He’d rather sleep on an army cot for another few months than have to go back to his apartment. It’s not like he’s going to get much sleep there, given that he spent the entire previous night waiting for Silva to show up and gut him. He really hopes that their new secret headquarters has decent running water though; otherwise people are probably going to start complaining about the smell.

        “Having regrets, Mr. Coulter?”

        He wonders if she means taking this job or not taking Silva’s offer or not _running the hell away_ when he had the chance, but then he remembers Q and the fact that the man is _dead_. The answer is clear – if he couldn’t prevent it from happening, he could damn well ensure that Silva doesn’t get away with it. “Not in the slightest.”

        M smiles. It’s a small, almost rueful smile, and it’s enough to make him wonder if maybe he made a mistake. He doesn’t get long to consider that, as M continues, “Very good, then. I expect you to do well in your new position, Q.”

        He can’t help but shiver slightly at that; sure, he wasn’t so blind as to not realize that there was a very, very good possibility that he would become the next Q. Q had hinted at it enough times, goodness knows, and had given him responsibilities accordingly. But he had always assumed that day was a long ways off, especially since Q had always made it clear that the only way they were going to get him to leave was as a corpse.

        Suddenly, that joke isn’t as funny as it used to be.

        And of course, there’s also the small matter of the madman who is after him. He doubts his new promotion is going to offer much protection from that. His only option really might be to just stay in MI6; cowardly as it is, it’s better than being dead, and that’s likely where both he and M are going to end up if they don’t take Silva out first.

        “I’ll do my best,” he replies automatically, and he knows the conversation will end with that. There really isn’t much else to discuss, he supposes. They both know Silva is after them, and they will do what they must to prevent the man from wreaking further havoc. There isn’t any grand strategy for them to pursue; they’ll just have to keep doing what they’re doing, and hope that is enough.

        It’s a shame, because he did have grand plans for when he finally rose to being Q. Now those plans are meaningless because at the rate things are going, he’s really not sure he’s going to last that long. All he can do now is hope to hell that he survives long enough to accomplish _anything_ of significance, namely taking out a psychotic ex-agent who has had years to prepare for revenge.

        Given the circumstances, it would be quite an accomplishment indeed.


	4. Q

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Q has officially been the quartermaster for all of seventy-two hours. Being kidnapped this quickly has to be a record. If he manages to get out of this alive (and that is a big if), he’ll make sure to put it on his CV under the ‘accomplishments’ section because obviously this is a sign that he needs to get a new job._

        It takes two weeks before Frederick is officially made the new quartermaster. Even though the old Q had made it no secret that he considered Frederick his heir-apparent, and both M and the vast majority of Q-branch back him, MI6 is still a bureaucracy and no bureaucracy is complete without the usual bureaucratic bullshit that is the bread and butter of bureaucracies everywhere.

        It would have been understandable if the delay was because of the explosion, and the inescapable fact that Silva penetrated his firewalls and protections to trigger the explosion. He is more than willing to accept the blame for that, to the point of self-flagellation, but that isn’t the reason for the delay. No, the _actual_ reason is because M’s credibility is currently being questioned, and the politicians are more than happy to turn her into their personal whipping boy as they try to puff up their national security credentials. It’s ridiculous, really, but he tries not to take it seriously. He’d learned long ago that worrying about the politics is a recipe for disaster.

        Not that he’d had much time to worry about it, on account of what he has officially labeled “the moving job from hell.” _Outdated_ is too generous a description of the underground bunker; petrol stations had better wiring than this place. It’s no wonder he has the job; it’s likely that nobody else _wanted_ the bloody job, and the stress of figuring out how to run a cable through the ancient infrastructure has probably aged him a couple decades.

        The sad thing is that a part of him is grateful for the work. Under normal circumstances the job would be annoying grunt work at best and mind-numbingly maddening at worst, but under normal circumstances there isn’t a _psychopath trying to kill him_. Not that he was obsessing over that or anything. In fact, he hadn’t really talked about it ever since that conversation in the car with M, although it’s never far from the forefront of his thoughts.

        It’s not that they are trying to keep it from everyone else… it just hasn’t really come up. And it’s not like it _changes_ anything; knowing the identity of the man doesn’t bring them any closer to the list itself, especially since Tiago Rodriguez/Raoul Silva is so very good at covering his tracks. Q would know; when he’s not killing himself trying to figure out how not to overload the flimsy electrical system, he’s running his own searches on the man. He hasn’t come up with much, although what little he finds is enough to send him into a crushing depression as he realizes again just how much trouble he’s in.

        He doesn’t know what M has told the others, if she’s said anything. He doesn’t either. Perhaps they both feel like they don’t need to. He’s heard the rumors though, that the explosion and the list are connected to M’s past work in Hong Kong, although no one has connected that to Q yet. He hasn’t bothered to put a halt to the gossip, knowing full well that if he gets involved, the rumors will take a whole new life of their own. Better to let it die out gradually than lend credence to it by trying to stop it outright, so he keeps his head down and concentrates on his work.

        Not that he has the opportunity to do anything _but_ work. On the day he finally completes the move, the paperwork finally goes through and he’s officially made Q (because in the end, who the new quartermaster will be is a relatively minor issue compared to the explosion at MI6’s headquarters and the loss of a list that shouldn’t exist in the first place – and to think people said that the government didn’t know how to prioritize). Unfortunately, he gets no time to savor the moment. And it wasn’t even the way Tanner informs him about his promotion in a tone that suggests he’s going to regret it before the end of the day, although that certainly hadn’t helped.

        No, it was the fact that before he could even shake Tanner’s hand, Melissa had come tearing into the room, asking if they’d heard about 007 crawling out of whatever hell hole missing agents go to when they’re in so-called retirement (his words, not hers). Tanner and Q had stared at her as she ran right back out, as if she has gone mad (psych had cleared her, but Q had stopped trusting psych the day they had cleared _him_ ), before Tanner had stood and exited the room without another word.

        It had all been delightfully anticlimactic.

        Still, he’s now the new Q, finally getting the job title along with the responsibilities (not to mention a rather nice salary bump, although he hasn’t exactly had the opportunity to spend any of it). And his primary responsibility, Tanner informs him the next day, is to give a broken agent the equipment necessary to keep his ass alive.

        Because broken, he is. If Q thought he had problems, it’s nothing compared to James Bond. Which is strange because logically, he knows that having a murderous madman after him _should_ outweigh no longer being at one’s physical (and mental) peak, but there’s just something about 007 that makes his own problems seem insignificant in comparison.

        It doesn’t take Q long to realize just how impossible a task he has been given. He watches 007’s testing sessions – remotely, of course – and his heart sinks with every passing minute. He tries to convince himself during Bond’s word association tests that maybe Bond really does like rainbows and sunshine and is not the _complete and utter sociopath_ he makes himself out to be, but the reality is too obvious. Physically, mentally… the man shouldn’t even be _considering_ going back into the field, and at the very least no one else should be considering it. Yet somehow they’re all catering to the man’s delusions, and that includes Q.

        It’s no easy task; the expense of said catering is _staggering_. When Q gets his hands on Bond’s old damage reports, he suffers mild heart palpitations when he starts adding up the cost of all of the equipment 007 has damaged ( _destroyed_ ) in the name of Queen and country. He has to admit it’s rather fitting; there are small countries that could be sustained solely on the amount spent on outfitting 007 with explosive pens.

        There is no way this is going to turn out well.

        But Q has not reached this point by giving up. If the threat of Raoul Silva isn’t enough for him to move to a desert island, then the challenge of outfitting 007 is not going to either. He can and _will_ keep one stupidly suicidal agent alive, regardless of whether James Bond likes it or not.

* * *

        Q is toying with the possibility of outfitting 007 with a shock collar when Tanner enters his office with the worst news he’s heard all week, and that is _really_ saying something. “007 has been cleared for active duty. You’re to meet him at the National Gallery, and get him outfitted for his next mission.”

        There are a number of responses Q could make, first and foremost being who Bond bribed (or, more likely, threatened) to be declared fit for duty. He settles for an incredulous, “He already has a mission?”

        Tanner sighs, putting Q on notice that he isn’t the only one who thinks that putting 007 back in the field is an incredibly foolish thing to do. They should start a support group. “We need him in Shanghai.”

        Q stares, trying to process this information. “You’re sending him after Patrice. You’re sending an agent who has just been cleared,” something he is _still_ having problems believing, “after the man who might be our best clue to where the list is.”

        The information fails to be processed.

        “Yes,” Tanner replies before changing the subject. “Now, as you know, we don’t know when Patrice is to be in Shanghai, only that he is to be there on a job soon. But we want 007 there immediately, so he is ready when the man does show up. I know you haven’t had a chance to prepare equipment for this mission, but the basic equipment should suffice.”

        It better, because that’s all he has right now. He’s reluctant to give 007 even that. Cleared or not cleared, surely he can’t be the only one who thinks that giving someone so bent on his own destruction an assortment of weaponry is a very, very bad idea. He isn’t entirely certain England will still be standing by the time he gets back to the bunker. Although speaking of that…

        “I thought I wasn’t supposed to leave.” Because so far, he hasn’t left the place, directing everything remotely. He doesn’t know what M told Tanner and the others to explain what appears to be voluntary house arrest, but no one has questioned it (unless one counts the rather disturbing rumor going round that he’s actually a vampire, despite the decade plus of evidence to the contrary). Although to be honest, considering the amount of work he’s been handling between dragging their temporary headquarters into the 21st century and trying to track down Silva, he probably wouldn’t have left even if there wasn’t a threat hanging over his head.

        “We’re sending some men with you,” Tanner replies, not really answering his question. “Don’t worry, they’ll stay out of the way while you meet with 007.”

        “That sounds like a lot of trouble.” That sounds like an understatement. He isn’t even sure why he’s arguing back right now. A part of him wants very badly to get out of this place, especially since it’s been far too long since he’s seen sunlight. He has his suspicions of who it was who started the rumor that he’s a vampire, although even he has to admit that whoever it is has a disturbingly compelling case based on these last few weeks. He hadn’t even left for Major Boothroyd’s funeral, something that angered him more than it probably should have but damnit, the man had been so much more than the head of his department. Major Boothroyd had been a friend, a mentor… had been the one to piece him back together when he thought it wasn’t possible. He owes the man so much and he couldn’t even leave to pay his respects, but now they want him to visit a museum just to hand 007 equipment for a mission they don’t even have full information of? He knows that Bond has often been given special treatment, but this seems a fair bit ridiculous given the risks that it will entail.

        “The powers that be have summoned you for a meeting. You are to meet with 007, and you will then be escorted to your meeting.” Tanner gives him a wry look before saying, “I think they want a chance to look you over. If it makes you feel better, M tried to make excuses for you. Unfortunately, they insisted, and we’re not in as strong a position to say no at the moment.”

        “Charming,” Q mutters, but while he really wouldn’t put it past the bureaucrats to want to waste his time interrogating him about his qualifications when he could be using the time to do something _useful_ , something about this makes him feel uneasy. The promise of an armed guard does nothing to reassure him. “Still, why the National Gallery? 007 never struck me as a great lover of art.”

        Except maybe to blow it up. Something that could very well happen if he is to leave this place. Call him a bit paranoid, but he still feels like this is a very, very bad idea.

        “Ah, that would be my fault. I thought you might enjoy the chance to get out a bit,” Tanner explains, looking embarrassed. “You’ve been stuck here for so long so….”

        Q feels like he’s just kicked an oversized puppy. Which is ridiculous because Tanner is a grown man who is completely unflappable during a crisis and scarily efficient at getting everyone to turn in their paperwork, but Tanner has a face that could guilt almost everyone into obeying him. Q is aware of this, and awareness should lead to immunization, yet he finds himself relenting as he says, “Fine. Just give me a moment to get his equipment and itinerary sorted out, and we can leave.”

        It isn’t as if they would knowingly send him into danger, right? Putting aside that being in the near vicinity of 007 is a health hazard in and of itself, he doubts that M would permit him to walk head first into danger. Not before he’s found that list, anyway.

        “Take your time,” Tanner says, before giving Q a critical look that makes him want to squirm. “I don’t suppose you have anything more… appropriate to wear for a meeting with the upper echelons of the British government?”

        And here he had thought the day could not get worse.

* * *

 

        The answer to Tanner’s question is no, he doesn’t have anything appropriate. Because oddly enough, when he was picking out what to bring from his flat – under supervision of some very heavily armed guard, all of whom were probably judging his taste in decor – he hadn’t thought to bring a few suits with him.

        Not that it matters. By the time he has finished preparing 007’s equipment and itinerary, someone has gone to his flat and brought back one of the two suits he owns. He puts it on, not bothering to protest the fact that someone has gone through his flat without his permission. There’s no point in complaining; from the beginning, he knew that a rise in the ranks meant a corresponding drop in his privacy. In any case, he doesn’t really want his first meeting with the bureaucrats – and more importantly, 007 – to be focused on his youth.

        It still is, nevertheless, since Q probably didn’t help his image by throwing that oversized parka over the suit. He couldn’t help it; it was bloody _freezing_ , and he wasn’t about to start his first meeting with 007 by sneezing. That would probably have triggered some type of blind rage attack which would have ended with Q in the hospital (or a shallow grave) and some severely traumatized bystanders.

        Although even that might have been preferable to Bond’s snide remarks about him still having spots, as if everyone in the world _except_ him had a perfect complexion. He briefly considers taking out the Walther and beating Bond to death with it, since he can’t bloody shoot it (he makes a mental note to program in an override corresponding to his own palm print, to keep him from having such dilemmas in the future), only resisting because he doesn’t want to face M’s formidable wrath.

        Contrary to popular belief he doesn’t choose a painting that gives him a reason to ask deep probing questions of 007. Or rather, he does, but that’s just a secondary reason since his primary concern is choosing as secure a location as possible given the very, very public location they’re meeting at. And if it gives him a reason to test the agent’s mental fitness a bit, it’s all the better.

        Despite his initial annoyance-slash-homicidal tendencies towards the agent, James Bond isn’t all that bad, readily accepting the change in quartermaster. Q likes to think that is because he impressed Bond, but he has a feeling it has more to do with Bond being distracted by the agent’s teeming cornucopia of mental health issues. Well, that and the fact that Bond seems to be far more concerned about the utter lack of explosive devices Q hands him (which is not even his fault; it isn’t like he was given time to make Bond anything except for the basic package, although he wouldn’t trust the man with anything more combustible than a paperclip). It would almost be endearing, if Q was crazy.

        Well, he is a little (crazy, that is, as psych would attest to), so actually it is a tad endearing. The thought is worrisome enough that Q makes another mental note to seek help, although he wants to be clear that his idea of ‘help’ is wailing at Moneypenny, not going to the doctor. But Bond’s sulking also reminds him of Major Boothroyd, who was always so excited to show Q his newest explosive gadget no matter how much Q complained to him about the budget being better used on other, less disposable things.

        Since thinking about Major Boothroyd is akin to poking a freshly gaping wound, he decides it is best to end the conversation right then and there. He stands with a bland smile, issuing a likely to be ignored demand (plea) that the equipment be returned in one piece.

        He has no real expectation of seeing any of the equipment ever again; 007 was the one agent who could reliably make the Major cry into his cups after a mission. Even before Q had become personally responsible for the human wrecking ball, he had known of Bond’s infamous destructive tendencies, as he had often been the one to comfort the Major by offering ideas on how to further destruct-proof their weaponry. None of them had worked. Few things did, when it came to 007.

        Still, as exits go, it isn’t a bad one.

        It is, however, somewhat marred by the two officers who seem to materialize right in front of him as soon as Bond is safely out of sight. Or at least they look like officers, if one was to ignore their too many bulging muscles and poorly concealed weapons that no proper policeman would have. Brave new world this may be, but even that would be going too far. It’s as if they were specially designed to vindicate all of Q’s paranoia from the past few weeks.

        They really needn’t have bothered.

        Q has officially been the quartermaster for all of seventy-two hours. Being kidnapped this quickly _has_ to be a record. If he manages to get out of this alive (and that is a big if), he’ll make sure to put it on his CV under the ‘accomplishments’ section because obviously this is a sign that _he needs to get a new job_.

        Although what he really wants to do is back away and run, he forces his lips into some semblance of a polite smile instead. It’s only because he already knows that he has nowhere to run.

        “Officers,” he says politely, even as he tries to surreptitiously check around him for the men who were _supposed_ to be shadowing him during his meeting with 007. There’s no one. It’s all rather impressive, given how his meeting had not exactly lasted long and their public location; there isn’t even any sign of blood splatter (he has no delusions of what happened to those men), let alone bodies that will give some poor tourist nightmares and a rather poor opinion about the state of British security. “Can I help you with something?”

        “Sir,” one of them says, voice low. The other just watches him, as if expecting him to try and jump out a window like he’s a crazy double-o agent. It’s tempting. “We need you to come with us.”

        “Is something the matter?” he asks. He doesn’t even know why he’s bothering; he’s not fooling anyone.

        “Not yet.” The implication hangs between them.

        Q straightens his tie, trying to appear casual even though quite frankly, he is terrified out of his mind. A part of him had always thought this moment was inevitable and prepared itself accordingly, so maybe that is why he is able to say without wavering, “Right then. And I suppose if I don’t come quietly, there will be consequences?”

        “He said you were clever,” one of the guards replies, and this confirmation that Silva really is involved makes it much too real. Consequences be damned he wasn’t meant to be here, wasn’t _meant_ to be a part of this. The only reason why he doesn’t run is because he knows that he won’t get very far, and certainly not without a major human cost.

        So that is why he lets himself be cuffed and roughly manhandled toward the exit. Most people try to avoid looking at the spectacle; the few who spare a second glance are too busy pointing and whispering, which he thinks is terribly unfair given the circumstances. A part of him wants to yell at the crowd, to tell them he’s doing this for them because things _will_ explode if he doesn’t go, but he shouldn’t be surprised. It’s too much to ask for people to get involved, especially when it requires challenging authority. Besides, all it would result in are explosions, and he doesn’t think Silva is the type to give up so easily.

        Once they’re safely out of view in the dummy police vehicle, they strip him of his belongings, including two distress call radios (he had brought extras, in case 007 managed to lose it before he even left the Gallery. Not that extreme of a possibility, all things considered). They even pull out a portable scanner, which he thinks is a little overkill considering how there hasn’t been time to put a tracker on him, what with the explosions and stolen list and all. But at least they’re competent kidnappers. It would be so much worse if he was being kidnapped by incompetent ones, although really he would prefer not to be kidnapped at all.

        Nobody seems interested in what his preferences are though.

        “Satisfied?” he asks when they’re finished. It’s easier to talk than breathe right now.

        “Perfectly,” says the goon, before knocking him out.

* * *

        He wakes up on an airplane, and considering the dumbfounded surprise on his kidnappers’ faces when he promptly goes into a screaming panic attack, there was apparently one thing Raoul Silva did not know about him.

        He would feel smug about that, except being scared of flying is a tad pathetic in this day and age, and not to mention the fact that he is currently in a lump of metal with lumps of metal bolted to it, and just _how the fuck does bolting two ginormous lumps of metal to a ginormous lump of metal make it fly_?

        Hint: the answer “it just does” does _absolutely nothing_ to calm a shrieking panic attack, especially when there’s a gun being waved in his face.

        Eventually they tire of him babbling codes and other nonsense, and mercifully drug him out of his misery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of things I should apologize for in this chapter, which gave me kittens due to logistics and the timeline and whatnot, and I really couldn’t help but throw in the Cabin Pressure joke even though this story is pretty much the opposite of cheery humor. I feel like I should apologize again for tainting a really brilliant show (sigh), but I’m saving my apologies for what is to come.


	5. Q

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“So tell me, Frederick… I’m sorry, Q,” Silva again lingers over the letter, and Q has to suppress a shudder. “Have you reconsidered my offer?”_
> 
> _“I’ve been a bit busy, what with you blowing up my office.”_
> 
> Please note the updated tags. It’s not going to be getting any better for a while.

        Q wakes up with a pounding headache and tied to a chair. One of these things is more upsetting than the other, but he has yet to decide which one.

        As rude awakenings go, it could have been worse. He could have woken up with needles under his fingernails or a cackling megalomaniac sharpening his pet collection of knives, or he could have not woken up at all.

        But then, it also could have been a _lot better_ , so maybe it’s petty but he doesn’t feel obliged to count his blessings at all.

        Because it is slightly more productive than sulking or feeling sorry for himself (both of which he is entitled to do), he tries to focus on taking in his surroundings. There is a frankly astounding amount of technology spread out before him. Computer screens powered by an obscene number of servers display everything from the stock markets to the most intimate details of terrorist cells that MI6 would kill to get its hands on. The sheer amount and variety of information is overwhelming, and Q wonders if Silva monitors all of this on his own or if the man has a small army of psychopaths-in-training who help carry out his merry misdeeds.

        It really would not surprise him if it was the former.

        He just manages to tear himself away from admiring Silva’s arsenal of doom when the lift starts up, the old machinery working smoothly. He tries to sit up straight, wipe his face of any emotion ( _fear_ ) as the doors open. Even at this distance, he can tell that Silva is smiling, and because he is a masochist with no common sense worth mentioning of, he finds himself saying, “I liked you better when you were dead,” before Silva has even stepped off the lift.

        His brain gamely tries to remind him to not antagonize the psychopath, but it falls silent quickly, recognizing a lost cause when it sees one.

        A lost cause might be a generous way of describing his present circumstances. Silva’s smile doesn’t fade, but it also doesn’t even pretend to be sincere any longer. But the man says and does nothing overtly threatening; instead, he pulls up a chair and quietly seats himself in front of Q. For a time, they just look each other over, and Q can’t help but feel like he’s being dissected. It doesn’t help his rising panic that if anyone was likely to perform a live vivisection, the man before him would be the first to volunteer to do the cutting.

        “Frederick.” The name is said so slowly, as if it is being savored. “Or rather… Q. You are Q now, yes? The paperwork gone through and everything?”

        He doesn’t bother asking how Silva knows about that (he already has a good idea how), doesn’t respond at all but instead just watches Silva as if the man is a wild animal ready to attack without warning. It is not an unreasonable assumption. And it is not like Silva really needs a response; the man is perfectly capable of carrying out a conversation by himself, a talent he demonstrates by sighing dramatically. “You are upset. Is this because of the airplane? You must excuse me; I didn’t realize you were afraid of flying! I suppose it is justified, given what happened to your poor family. Still, it’s such a pedestrian fear for someone so intimate with the workings of technology.”

        “Like I haven’t heard that one before,” he snaps, immediately regretting it as the gesture makes his head throb. He considers the possibility that the headache is an intended side effect of the drugs, something to catch him off-guard, which is not a position he wanted to be in given the circumstances. He’s having enough trouble keeping up as it is, although he likes to think that is due to Silva’s volatile moods and obviously demented mental state, rather than any difference in intelligence.

        Still, so much for the silent treatment, but Q really is not good with holding his back his words when stressed. Which is understandable; it’s simply easier to keep up a bland smile when he’s not dealing with a mind-numbing headache ( _what had they given him?_ ) and the unsettling prospect of getting his liver ripped out and served to him with a side of fava beans. Besides, like the constant cracks about his appearance, the comments about his fear of flying (and his _family_ ) are grating, at best. The psychiatrists had a field day when they learned about that particular fear – that is, until he had locked a few of them out of their bank accounts. The rest had fallen into line very, very quickly.

        He still wonders why they didn’t write him up for that one. Of course, given his ability to wreak havoc on the electronic devices they found themselves so dependent on, maybe they had just found it in their best interest to clear him as quickly as possible so they wouldn’t have to deal with him anymore.

        That would explain a lot, actually.

        “I’m sorry, am I boring you?” Silva asks, reminding him that it might not be the best idea to tune out at the moment. To his slight satisfaction, this might be the most irritated Q has seen the man. Likely Silva doesn’t like to be ignored, but Q figured that out when Silva blew up MI6; if that wasn’t a blatant cry for attention, what is?

        “Sorry,” he replies automatically, and not at all insincerely. But because he values his limbs and the ability to breathe, he tries to play along, pasting a polite smile on his face as he asks, “Is this the part where I’m supposed to ask you why I’m here?”

        Well, he never claimed to be good at this sort of thing. Not that he needed to; that was why MI6 created field agents, of which he is not one. Still, no one could say he isn’t making an effort, even though his effort is likely to get him killed all the more quickly.

        Luckily (or unluckily – Q still cannot be certain), Silva seems amused enough by his response. No sharp utensils or blunt instruments are brought in, at least. “I told you I was going to give you another chance. I am a man of my word, after all.”

        This is not as reassuring as Silva seems to think it is. “What, so you could shoot me in person when I turned you down?”

        “Whatever gave you the idea that I am going to shoot you?”

        There are too many ways to answer that, but Q settles for replying, “That’s what you did to the others, isn’t it?”

        Silva looks much too pleased by the question, which is enough of a confirmation. “You figured it out?”

        “Five agents, each shot in the head. Just as you threatened. Not too hard to make the connection, once you know what to look for.” Q takes in a deep breath, trying to forget his horror when he pulled up the files of the five agents M had traded Silva for. Even though the survival rate for field agents isn’t terribly high, he doesn’t believe in coincidences when it involved bullets to the head. “Did you give them a second chance too? Or any chance at all?”

        Silva scoffs, as if the very thought is absurd. “What do I need with agents who were stupid enough to get caught in the first place? Honestly, it makes me wonder what the old woman was thinking, wanting to get them back at all.”

        Again, not very reassuring. “So why I am here, if I was also stupid enough to get caught?”

        “You were young,” Silva replies, in that dismissive tone Q associates with people justifying themselves for looking down on him because of his appearance. He usually responds to such a tone by throwing things, but unfortunately, he is currently tied up and there is nothing within reach to even gently lob in Silva’s general direction. Nothing that would not be thrown right back at him, at least, and with extreme prejudice. “You learned. Really, you have improved greatly in your skills. I’ve been following your work for fifteen years now, and I must say I have been very impressed. I was so sure MI6 would ruin you, but you’ve exceeded all of my expectations. All of those failsafe protocols? Genius!”

        “Thank you,” he replies automatically, and he immediately wants to kick himself. Not for saying the words – although they make Silva smile like a Cheshire cat – but the little curl of pride at the acknowledgment of his work. Which is not to say that his work hasn’t been appreciated (to the contrary, really), but as supportive as Major Boothroyd always was, his mentor had never quite comprehended the details of what he was doing. Appreciation from someone who really understood how _difficult_ it was to invent an effective failsafe protocol… that is different. He can do without the appreciation, however, especially given the cost of it. “It didn’t seem to stop you from getting into our systems though.”

        “Don’t be too hard on yourself. It was really quite difficult. Far more difficult than I had anticipated, really,” Silva says soothingly, as if he is calming an angry kitten (Q tends to have that effect on some people – more pathetically adorable than threatening when he’s angry, although said people never managed to catch a green light for the rest of their sorry lives). “You did an excellent job, and it took much longer to infiltrate than I thought it would. I wasn’t even able to do as much damage as I would have liked! In fact, I’m sure things would have gone differently if you weren’t so… distracted.”

        “Is that why you stole the list? As a distraction?”

        “That’s one of the reasons.”

        Q tries not to feel too dismayed, or at least to not show too much of it. “How many do you have?”

        “Hmm,” Silva makes a show of contemplating the answer to that question. “Let’s say… one hundred and sixty-eight. One for each day they had me – that is fair, no?”

        It’s surprisingly difficult to formulate a proper response when someone pulls the ‘They tortured me because of you’ card, even if Q doesn’t actually believe that has anything to do with him. But Silva does and now doesn’t seem to be the appropriate time to have a philosophical debate on blame, especially when he’s the one tied to a chair and his head hurts so much he just wants to pass out again. Those sorts of things tend to put one at a distinct disadvantage, so he settles instead for shifting the topic. “How did you escape, anyway? Last I checked, it wasn’t supposed to be easy to break out of a Chinese prison.”

        “Oh, that one’s easy. They let me go.”

        Q stares. He wants to call bullshit, but this seems an odd thing to lie about, especially since it was so unbelievable. So he decides to ask, just in case he misheard due to the drugs they used to render him unconscious. “They just let you go?”

        “They let me go,” Silva repeats with far too much cheer.

        “Why would they do that?” Besides finally realizing that they were playing with a live fire and had to get rid of it as quickly as possible. But that’s when you were supposed to put _out_ the flame, not send it careening out of anyone’s control.

        Silva laughs, the sound sharp and bitter. “Dear boy, you really have to ask that after you have seen what I have done?”

        The man has a point. Silva has certainly shown himself to be capable of creating more chaos than anyone else, especially given his past association with MI6, and he certainly has the motivation to do it. The Chinese wouldn’t even have to do anything; just set him free and let him do as he pleases. There would be no responsibility, no risk of blame for unleashing a dangerous weapon.

        Of course, there was always that the loose cannon would turn against them, but he has a feeling that MI6’s betrayal was a far higher priority than even the ones who did the torturing. Perhaps that was what they were counting on. Still….

        “A rather forward-thinking move then, don’t you think? As for you, it’s been fifteen years since then, and you’ve been planning your revenge all this time?”

        “I can be patient, when I must. Why else do you think the pair of you are still alive after that explosion?”

        He thinks back to what Tanner had told him. Tanner and M had been on their way back from her meeting with the new Intelligence and Security Committee chairman when Silva had broken into the systems; thus, Silva either had a creepily excellent sense of timing (not that unbelievable, but still a stretch), or… “You knew her appointments. You wanted her to see it.”

        What goes unsaid, however, is the fact that Silva had to have known about her appointments _before_ he deliberately revealed himself to MI6. God, how long had Silva been in their systems then, escaping detection? Maybe not too long, but certainly long enough for Q to again feel like he should have been shown the door rather than given a promotion. What was M _thinking_? Complete cock up is a mild way of describing his mistakes.

        “Good work does deserve to be appreciated. I try to be modest but sometimes, I just cannot help myself.” Silva’s face twists into something that looks almost like contrition, if one was on a lot of hallucinogens. Q can only wish that was the case. “It’s a shame I couldn’t let you see it as well, but I so did want to keep you safe.”

        “How thoughtful,” he replies just as insincerely. “I’ll have you know that I nearly suffocated in the Tube.”

        Silva shrugs, not the least bit remorseful. The man probably doesn’t know the meaning of the word, except as something to inflict on other people. “Better than being torn apart by shrapnel, wouldn’t you agree?”

        Q doesn’t know if he would agree, considering his current situation, but he decides that it might be best not to give Silva any ideas. The man already has more ideas than is good for anyone.

        But even worse than the ideas Silva has is the fact that Silva has been far too eager to share _all_ of them with him. Silva is a showman, certainly, but he’s also an intelligent one, loathe as he is to admit it. If Silva is explaining to him all of his grand plans, it means that Silva doesn’t think he is capable of stopping them. And that certainly doesn’t bode well for his long-term survival rate, although just being in the same room as Silva has likely diminished his life expectancy rather dramatically.

        “So tell me, Frederick… I’m sorry, Q,” Silva again lingers over the letter, and Q has to suppress a shudder. “Have you reconsidered my offer?”

        “I’ve been a bit busy, what with you blowing up my office.” That… probably isn’t helping his long-term survival rate either, but his mouth is working on auto-pilot as his brain tries desperately to figure out how much longer he has to live. Probably not very long. Considering how they’re in the middle of who knows where, he probably doesn’t have to worry about how MI6 will dispose of his body since it’s unlikely they’ll ever get their hands on it.

        “It could have been worse. You could have been in the office, like our dearly departed Major Boothroyd.”

        The words are so casual that they feel like a slap to the face. And to think that Q had thought he could not hate Silva any more than he already does. He’s tied to a chair, seated across from a psychopath who hacked his systems, bombed his workplace, killed his mentor and colleagues… and that was _before_ kidnapping him, drugging him, stuffing him on a plane, and then tying him to a chair to relentlessly mock. His head is pounding from said drugs and stress and _fear_ , and he can barely keep his thoughts together through the pain. And, most of all, he is so damn _tired_ of Silva’s game, whatever the hell it is, so he can no longer stop himself from spitting out, “What the fuck do you want?”

        It’s stupid, he knows, to show weakness like this, but at least Silva looks a little surprised even though Q’s anger is laughable at best. After all, who could be intimidated by him when he has no control over a situation that he was never meant to be in? But Silva covers for it well, leaning forward in his chair to chastise him gently, “So rude, Q. I told you I was going to give you a chance, or did you think I was not being sincere?”

        “Of course I didn’t,” he replies sharply. He cannot even be bothered to pretend otherwise; it’s not like Silva would believe him anyway. “Besides, we both know I made my position perfectly clear the last time. It’s not exactly like you gave me any time – or reason – to reconsider my position.”

        “What can I say, I like to move fast,” Silva says, completely missing the point.

        “I thought you knew how to be patient,” he throws back.

        “Only when I must.” Silva leans back into his chair, looking at Q as if he is a small child who just needs to be explained the ways of the world so that he will obediently fall in line. “In this case, I had hoped that given a tiny demonstration of my capabilities, you might be more… open to persuasion.”

        He snorts. “Again, we both know the reason why you did what you did, and it wasn’t as a recruiting card. You did it to prove that you aren’t scared of anything MI6 can throw at you. In which case, it begs the question of why you would be interested in me at all. You seem perfectly capable of creating mayhem on your own, so what do you need me for?”

        “Even I am not so arrogant as to think I can do everything on my own.”

        Actually, Q is quite certain that Silva is arrogant enough to think that he can take on the world on his own. Worse still, the man is brilliant enough that he might even be able to manage it, although he wouldn’t last long. But that wouldn’t matter; short-term mayhem with long-term consequences is more than enough. Silva isn’t looking to play a long game. Fifteen years has been long enough already, and now it’s time for the end game. And whatever the end game is going to be, it’s bound to result in a lot of death and destruction.

        And here is Q, stuck in the middle of all of it. What a dangerous place to be. And maybe that is all Silva wants from him, a captive audience, unable to look away from the devastation once it begins.

        “Besides,” Silva continues with that bright, false cheer, “I’m not one to turn down good help, and you must be good if Mummy thought that you were worth trading me for.”

        Again, the way Silva speaks, the words are so deceptively casual that it would be easy to miss what is really being said. Which would be a problem, given that Silva is making clear what he had only previously implied: that in Silva’s twisted mind, Q is as much to blame for what happened to Silva as M is. And now, all Silva wants to do is to prove how _wrong_ they were, right before he makes everyone pay dearly for it.

        “So is that what this is all about?” he asks, trying not to feel sick. “To prove that you are better?”

        He jerks back sharply when Silva rises up so fast that the chair he was sitting in falls back with a loud bang. He barely has time to process the threat – not that he would have been able to do anything about it – when Silva is on him, gripping his shoulders tightly but fingers inching ever closer to his neck. The snarl on the man’s face is like that of a rabid dog, and Q’s attempts to shrink back (not out of fear, _not out of fear_ , but out of sheer self-preservation and the survival instinct to _get away_ from the danger before him) are pitiful as Silva pulls him as close as possible.

        “I _am_ better,” Silva hisses, and it’s taking everything in him not to simply panic and try to wrench away from the madness. “I was better than all of those agents put together, and I am certainly better than _you_. And despite that, she threw me away, left me there to be tortured to death, and for what? For them, for you?!”

        For _peace_ , is the answer, but it’s the one Silva will never accept. All he sees is the people, the one who betrayed him and the ones he was betrayed for, and they all have or will pay in blood.

        The irony of this, of course, is that M never intended for him to be traded. She had admitted that she asked for him only as an afterthought – a bargaining chip, really, whose sole purpose was to be thrown away if necessary. All of them were, likely. They were all disposable in the name of peace. Maybe it hadn’t come to that in the end, but that was not due to M’s attachment to her people and some boy of a hacker who had the unfortunate luck to be in the wrong place at the right time. It wasn’t about them, it was never about them, but Silva either can’t or won’t see that, and now he wants them to pay. Nothing Q says will change that, but that doesn’t mean he has to affirm the man’s delusions.

        “If what you want is guilt,” he finds himself saying, trying to keep his voice from wavering too much, “you will have to look elsewhere because you will not get it from me. I never asked for M to make that trade. I certainly never asked for you to come looking for me in the first place.  Blame me if you like, Mr. Rodriguez, you’ll do it anyway… but I will not be made to feel guilty over what happened to you.”

        His words hang in that narrow space between them. They’re both shaking, although whether because of Silva’s rage or his own fear, he doesn’t know. What he does know is that he’s standing at the edge of a precipice, and Silva is more than ready to fling him over.

        The fingers clench in tighter, and Q is certain this will be the end. But then, as abruptly as Silva’s rage began, it drains away. Silva sets him down, face wiped clean. The gesture is gentle, which serves only to make him warier as Silva pats his clothes down, as if to tidy his appearance, before lingering on his neck tie.

        “No wonder Mother likes you so,” Silva says, straightening the knot. It feels like a hangman’s noose. “You must have given the psychiatrists such fits when you first arrived at MI6, so unsympathetic and uncaring to the plight of others.”

        If Silva thinks to shame him, he will have to try harder. “I’m sure they’ve seen worse.” There is no need to imply any more than that.

        “And yet,” Silva continues, as if he hadn’t said anything, “apparently not enough. Despite all you have accomplished and your delightful view of the world, the quartermaster is still less important to Mother than a list of names.”

        Q blinks at Silva, not entirely sure where that came from or how to answer. He likes to think he recovers rather well when he replies, “Few things are. Besides, I haven’t been quartermaster for long.”

        He tries to keep the words light, as if he doesn’t actually mean them. He doesn’t know what Silva is trying to get at, but the man’s lazy self-satisfaction is making him awfully twitchy.

        “You’re too modest, you really are.” Silva shakes his head, as if pitying him for not also being a melodramatic arsehole with an ego the size of London. Which is incredibly unfair since Q _does_ have an ego, thank you very much, except right now that ego is being held in check by being the prisoner of a man who ripped through his security systems as if they were made of tissue paper. Q is good at what he does, but so far Silva has proven himself to be _better_ , and at the rate things are going he is never going to have the opportunity to prove otherwise. “It’s such a shame, really. I think we could have made quite an interesting team.”

        An interesting team that would have ended with his corpse on the bottom of the Atlantic, no doubt.

        “You never wanted me to work with you in the first place.” And because he might as well go out swinging, since he won’t be around much longer, he continues, “And frankly, I would never want to work with you either. You speak of betrayals and treachery and yet you fail to remember that what happened to you was because of your own arrogance. I was there when you hacked the Chinese, remember. I know you could have got in and out without detection, but just like this time, you wanted them to know that you were there. You wanted to humiliate them, to know that there was someone better than them. You thought you were so important to M that she would never betray you, and so you believed yourself invincible and flaunted the rules because you could. And when it ended up with you in that cell, you blamed everyone else for your plight even though it was your own actions that ultimately got the best of you.”

        Silva’s face grows tighter with each word, but surprisingly he doesn’t interrupt or say anything at all once Q has run out of breath and words (and _nerves_ ). Instead, he stands frozen over Q, staring at him as if he has never seen him before, during which Q’s life may or may not flash before his eyes.

        Then the man shrugs dismissively, seating himself back down and folding his hands in his lap. His eyes are blank even as he gives Q that lazy, cruel smile that signals that this is the end. “Fair enough. I assume by your words that you wish to get down to business, hmm? I suppose I could indulge you on that point.”

        Q disagrees entirely, but it is inevitable. He isn’t ready for this, his hands clenching as his eyes dart for an exit that he knows does not exist. He wants to be brave, hopes he can be, but how does one manage it when you know what is to come? He’s only thirty-two, and this is so _unfair_ , and he can’t help but think that even though he’s known life is unfair since he was seventeen and locked in some cell in a foreign country because he happened to be good enough to get noticed by the wrong people. And now he’s here because once again he’s been noticed by the wrong people, but hasn’t he already been through _enough_?

        But he has nowhere to go, no avenue of escape. Even if he could somehow overpower Silva – a dubious prospect, given the drugs, the tied-to-a-chair bit, and how laughably, _hopelessly_ , outmatched he is – he doesn’t know where he is and he’ll probably get shot before he makes it out of the building. There is nothing he can do, except try to straighten up and not spend his last moments freaking out even though that’s all he wants to do and he is entitled to do it because goddamnit, _why does this keep happening to him_? It’s as if the universe has nothing better to do.

        “Is there anything I can say to persuade you not to kill me?” he asks with only minimal desperation, even though that ship has long since sailed. He had probably set that ship on fire with his damnable words, but he knows deep down that nothing he did or said would have spared him of this moment. Silva had made up his mind long ago, no matter what the man claims, and it is impossible to reason with such madness.

        “My dear boy,” Silva’s face is almost comical in its exaggerated shock, “what ever made you think I was going to kill you? I never had any intention of ending your life.”

        Q doesn’t even have time to pretend to feel relieved when Silva’s face darkens. “That would be far too easy.”

* * *

        Silva is right, of course. He’s so right that Q wants to change his mind about everything, including agreeing to work for Silva or feeling guilty about what happened to Silva or getting on Silva’s bad side or ever being noticed by Silva at all because really that prison in China wasn’t so bad, at least compared to _this_. But Silva has made himself clear. He was only being given one second chance (if he’d ever had a chance to begin with) and it’s gone now, and all he can do is live with the consequences of not being smart enough to save Silva the trouble and killed himself first.

        He cannot voice any of this though, as the ball gag in his mouth and the cock up his arse make it difficult to form a sentence, so he settles for screaming wordlessly until he isn’t quite capable of conjuring up a coherent thought, let alone wonder what he could have done to avoid any of this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry.


	6. Q

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Q has scars, from when he was seventeen. Silva likes those scars, traces them with the tip of his finger while whispering about how he will make them go away. What goes unsaid is that Silva makes them go away by inflicting scars of his own, invisible to the naked eye but jagged and irreparable all the same._
> 
> I've cleaned up some typos I found in the prior chapter; my apologies for that. Of course I'm always open to critique and definitely amenable to anyone who might want to beta this story.
> 
> Again, please heed the updated tags. Nothing is graphic (I think, at least), but it’s fairly obvious what is going on.

        _This_ , Q thinks, _is the anatomy of a breakdown._

* * *

        He doesn’t remember much, from the first time. That is probably because of the drugs (Silva doesn’t have a monopoly on blaming others). He remembers his head throbbing, his body hurting, and Silva. He remembers Silva all too well, every touch and caress and the way Silva’s hands trailed down the lines of his body before doing something that made Q gasp and whimper and want to black out, except he didn’t. Couldn’t. He remembers pulling so hard on the metal cuffs that his wrists bled, he remembers praying silently for it to end quickly, he remembers it not (ending, that is).

        Perhaps he remembers more from that first time than he would like to admit.

* * *

        He also remembers that the first time, he didn’t cry. He waits until Silva has released him from his bonds and left the room, without sparing even a backwards glance at the destruction he is leaving behind. It would have been easier, to pass out right then and there, but he somehow found the strength to crawl out of the bed and into the shower, where he spent the next half hour trying to scrub off his skin.

        He stops, when the hot water runs out, but he doesn’t move except to slide to the tiled floor in a tangle of limbs and skin that still crawls from Silva’s touch. He doesn’t cry then either, but instead lets the cold water run down his face and body, making him shiver. Of course, he was shaking even before the hot water ran out, but no one needs to know that. It’s bad enough that he knows.

        Not many thoughts run through his mind during this time. Instead, he feels numb. There’s a certain familiarity to the numbness, a coping mechanism he had picked up in that tiny cell in China. He thought he had left it behind, but there are just some things that never really went away.

        He has a feeling that this won’t be going away either.

        He doesn’t know how long he sits there, staring at nothing in particular. Long enough for the door to the bathroom to open and for Silva to appear through the mist, as if a mythological beast. But Silva is all too real, and so is the twisted smile on his face as the man looks down at Q.

        Q doesn’t move. He doesn’t do anything to acknowledge Silva’s presence, except close his eyes in a futile attempt to ignore the man standing much too close. But Silva is not one to be disregarded, and Q’s eyes fly open in sudden panic when the man steps into the shower, still wearing his expensive three-piece suit. Without a word, Silva sinks down to his level, reaching out to cup his cheek in a gesture that would seem fond if not for what had happened less than an hour ago.

        He flinches back, wincing as his head knocks into the wall, but that doesn’t deter Silva. To Q’s horror, Silva’s arms wrap around him ( _pinning him in place as Silva pushes a leg between his and forces them apart_ ) in an embrace, pulling him close in a hideous parody of comfort. Q immediately tries to find some leverage so he can push the man away, but Silva is not to be denied. Instead, the arms tighten until he goes still, gasping for air because it is suddenly so hard to breathe. He is shaking even more violently now, unable to control himself as Silva starts to rock him, crooning soothing words that are empty of sentiment or sympathy.

        Q doesn’t even realize he is crying until Silva kisses away the tears.

* * *

        There are protocols, for being kidnapped. MI6 has protocols for just about everything, including how to make proper tea (Q may have been responsible for that one), but everyone makes sure to familiarize themselves with the ones for being kidnapped. One never knows what is going to happen during a promising career in espionage, so it’s best to be prepared.

        Q has never seen the point of the things. He has been kidnapped twice (not including this time) since starting at MI6, so he thinks he has a pretty good frame of reference to come to the conclusion that the protocols are mostly bullshit. And he had even been one of the lucky ones in that he was rescued before anyone pulled out the thumbscrews. Because printed words on a page didn’t mean much when someone was threatening you with a branding iron, and Q had never been very good at following instructions anyway.

        He finds himself trying to remember the pithy suggestions now, helpful little hints like not antagonizing your captor (bit late for that), not giving away any secrets (irrelevant; Silva already has all the information he could possibly want), and not getting yourself killed (unless absolutely necessary). Stay calm, stay alive and pray that MI6 rescues you before you turn traitor or into a corpse.

        The former is unlikely, if only because Silva has no need for his skills. The latter is equally unlikely, if only because that isn’t Silva’s short-term goal, for now at least. What Silva wants – and this is something that is not covered by the protocols – is to torture for the sake of torturing, and Q is starting to understand that distinction all too well. Because if the goal is not cooperation but to break him down until there is nothing left, then there is nothing he can really do to dissuade the man. The only thing he can do is hold out, but he isn’t sure how long he can manage that either because he has never been the most put-together of people in the first place (not to disparage Silva’s abilities, of course, because the man truly is a genius when it comes to this).

        _Trust issues_ , was what psych had written about him. Loathe as he was to give the doctors credit for anything, even he has to admit that they have a point. His family had died when he was old enough to grieve for them and young enough to resent them for it. His aunt may or may not have sold him out to the Chinese (he could never bring himself to find out), but she had always viewed him as an obligation, and made it a point to remind him of that. Then had come China, and three months of fear, pain, and desperation, only to be rescued because M had sacrificed one of her best agents. And instead of running away like he should have, he ran, eyes wide open, straight into MI6’s clutches, where he formed a place for himself by virtue of being better than everyone else.

        This wasn’t to say that he didn’t like Q-branch because he _does_. But even they had been kept at arm’s length because they didn’t understand why he made his work his life. Work was where he belonged because he didn’t know how to make a life for himself outside of it. It was a vicious cycle; he compensated for his lack of a life by throwing himself even harder into his work, and the only person who had understood that was Major Boothroyd, who was also the only person Q had ever trusted in all of his adult life.

        Only now does he realize that he’s spent so long being held together by work and Major Boothroyd that stripped of both, he is very, very vulnerable indeed.

        Despite that, he tries to keep himself going. Really, he does try because although it sometimes seems like he is wholly lacking in common sense, he doesn’t want to be… broken. He doesn’t want to lose himself. But it’s just so hard when Silva is _always there_ , even when he is not. Because Silva doesn’t have to be near him to make his presence known; Q spends every waking moment either remembering what has happened, dreading what is to come, or experiencing it first-hand. There isn’t a moment when he can escape it because even his sleep is filled with nightmares, and more often than not he wakes with a gasp only to find that the nightmare is right there next to him.

        And when Silva is there, he does not want to be. He can’t stand what is happening, he just can’t, and it’s driving him mad that he has no choice in this. Silva never gives him a choice. This isn’t something he can talk or hack or tinker his way out of; Silva knows him too well, and while the man’s method of torture may seem a little unconventional, it’s perfectly calculated to tap into Q’s paralyzing fear of being vulnerable and helpless again.

        He’s starting to realize that he never really stood a chance, and that thought alone might be enough to send him into the throes of despair. So for the sake of his quickly fraying sanity, he does his best to not think about it at all.

* * *

        Of course, such sentiments are easier said than done when Q is not constantly being reminded of how laughably, horribly outmatched he is.

        He is back in the server room, fingers tapping absent-mindedly at the leg of the table he is currently cuffed to. Silva is generously allowing him to watch as the man uploads a video with five names and identities from the list he had spent over three months searching for. Well, he has found it now, has it literally within his physical reach, and still he can do nothing to stop Silva from leaking the identities.

        The video is appallingly bad quality, considering the ridiculous amount of technology Silva has at his disposal. Whether it is because Silva doesn’t think the terrorists will believe the legitimacy of something of slick and elegant production value, or because this is Silva’s special way of showing contempt for those he is condemning to death and those who are trying to stop him, he doesn’t know. It doesn’t much matter either way.

         “Well?” Silva asks suddenly as he pushes away from the table with a dramatic flourish, a crooked smile on his face.

        Q blinks, unsure of what Silva is asking. He isn’t sure if he is failing to understand because it is Silva or because it is him, with a mind that is becoming increasingly sluggish as he tries very hard not to think about his lot in life. “Well, what?” he asks, a little dumbly.

        “What do you think?”

        Q is immediately wary. In this past week, Silva has shown time and time again that he does not care what Q has to say, and the fact that he is asking now makes Q certain that this is a trap. The problem though, is that he does not know what it will take to trigger it, and so he tries to tread lightly, “I think you’re acting like a child calling out for attention from his mummy.”

        Apparently not that lightly.

        Silva’s smile tightens ever so slightly, and Q tries to remind himself about the protocols, about _not antagonizing the kidnapper_ , about how there’s no point in making things worse for him because as bad as things are now, if anyone could make it worse it’s Silva. “Do you really?”

        This time, Q bites his tongue and shakes his head, not wanting to answer. But Silva reaches down to catch him by the chin, forcing him to look into those mad eyes. “Don’t be shy,” he purrs, his nails digging in, causing Q to wince. “If you have something to say, you should say it. After all, it’s been so long since we had a proper conversation.”

        Somehow, Silva manages to make it sound like it is Q’s fault that they haven’t been talking. Q didn’t think it was possible to hate the man any more than he already does, and perhaps that is why he says what he does, even though he knows it can only end badly for him. “She wasn’t wrong to do what she did. And I think you know that, but you just don’t want to admit it because that would mean you aren’t nearly as important as you think you are.”

        He probably shouldn’t have added that last bit, but it doesn’t matter. Silva is giving him a look as if the man has never seen him before, and if only that was true. Q prepares himself to be struck or worse, but instead Silva relaxes his grip ever so slightly as the man asks in a deceptively casual voice, “Have you ever seen what cyanide can do to a person?”

        And without relinquishing his hold on Q, Silva shows him.

        Q’s immediate instinct is to scramble back as far as he can from the grotesque image before him. But he can’t move, held there by Silva’s hand and the horror before him, and the sudden, disturbing thought that Silva’s madness isn’t limited in fault.

        “Oh god,” he murmurs.

        Silva laughs hollowly, his broken teeth making a horrible clacking sound before the prosthetic is replaced. The smile that adorns Silva’s face is as twisted as it was without the prosthetic, and Silva says, “Clever boy, we both know that god has nothing to do with it. Only men, ordinary, stupid men who believe they possess far more power than they actually do.”

        “Then what does that make you?” he asks, his voice still shaking from the sight of Silva’s mutilated face and the unadulterated hatred in the man’s eyes.

        “Someone who knows better,” Silva replies.

* * *

        Silva prefers psychological torture and humiliation, but that doesn’t mean he is above resorting to base physical violence. He proves this when one day, Q manages to bloody Silva’s nose in an act of pure desperation ( _because it was too much, too much, and he just couldn’t take it anymore_ ).

        Silva breaks three of his fingers.

        It’s the only time Silva resorts to such crude actions, but Q gets the message. He doesn’t dare fight him again, and thus loses another piece of himself.

* * *

        Silva is nothing if not unpredictable, and very, very hard to read. Sometimes Q is certain Silva hates him. Sometimes Q is certain Silva cares nothing for him except as a means to an end. And sometimes, Q sees Silva looking at him with an odd, almost wistful look, and then he cannot be certain of anything.

        He never thinks long on it because he has so many other things to worry about. It’s hard to care about what motivates the man when he is busy trying not to fall apart at the seams, a task made all the more difficult by that infuriating unpredictability. There is no pattern, or at least not one that Q can discern. Silva comes when he pleases. The man doesn’t always take; sometimes he tells Q stories about MI6 or rats or both. Sometimes he will try to engage Q in a philosophical debate, although that is getting harder as a debate requires two active participants and Q is increasingly not present, even if physically he remains (unwillingly). Sometimes he just sits there and watches Q, an unnerving act, to say the least.

        The one constant, however, is that Silva never stops. Silva won’t give him that, no matter how sweetly he begs (and he has, when it becomes too much, whispering, _please stop, please stop,_ please). But sometimes Silva lets him press his face into the pillow so he doesn’t have to watch, and Silva always pretends that he doesn’t hear when Q starts to cry helplessly, and since when were those things something he is grateful for?

        It’s getting harder to even pretend to be brave. It was never easy to keep up a stoic face; his attempts to pretend that this wasn’t affecting him had not lasted more than a few minutes, as his mind had started to shatter as soon as Silva had stripped him of his clothes and pressed him into the bed. And now, everything just hurts. Maybe not in the conventional sense (broken fingers notwithstanding), but it _bloody hurts_ and all he can think of even when he’s alone are hands on his skin, a whisper of breath on his neck before being replaced by teeth, the feeling of intrusion and loss and helpless and _oh god just make it stop, please just stop_.

        It never stops him. Q is terrified that nothing will ever stop the man because when Silva finishes, and he is curled up on his side, shaking, pathetic, and incapable of a single coherent thought because all he wants to do is pretend that this _isn’t happening_ , Silva will caress his cheek and whisper mocking praise, and Q will have to close his eyes so that he cannot see the smile on Silva’s face.

        It is the only time that Silva’s smile is sincere.

* * *

        Q has scars, from when he was seventeen. Silva likes those scars, traces them with the tip of his finger while whispering about how he will make them go away. What goes unsaid is that Silva makes them go away by inflicting scars of his own, invisible to the naked eye but jagged and irreparable all the same.

        That’s what Q thinks the whisper means, at least. But then sometimes, Silva continues, “ _I’ll teach you how to make them go away_ ,” and it occurs to him that he might be missing something very, very important.

* * *

        In retrospect, what happens next isn’t surprising. In fact, what would be surprising was if Silva hadn’t had it all planned from the very beginning, and was only waiting for him to become reckless enough to act.

        Also in retrospect, it hadn’t been the most well-thought out of plans either, which probably had not helped his chances. Truth be told, his plan was simple, stupid, and positively suicidal. The problem, however, was that he didn’t have any other choice. His options were… limited, to say the least.

        He couldn’t run, that much was certain. They’re on an _island_ , and there is no way off of said island unless he can:

1)        Make it to the docks without getting shot (doubtful, considering the rather absurd prevalence of men with automatic weapons);

2)        Learn how to hotwire a boat without getting shot (less doubtful, since he had once been rather good at his job, but he’s still not bulletproof); and

3)        Navigate said boat back to civilization without getting caught, shot, or blown up (extremely doubtful, since he has no idea what _ocean_ the island is even located in).

        Not exactly a viable option, then.

        He couldn’t hide either. The island is small and empty, its broken buildings abandoned of all human life. He also has no doubt that Silva knows the island, knows every decent hideaway and refuge, and would be able to quickly drag him out of any dark corner he tried to huddle away in. (There is also the fact that the island is literally falling apart, the structures shedding brick and concrete in liberal amounts, meaning that there is also a decent possibility he’ll end up crushed before being found out. He’s still trying to determine whether this is a negative or a positive.)

        And finally, and most importantly, he couldn’t wait any longer. The protocols said to wait for MI6 to show up. Well, Q has been waiting, and MI6 is nowhere to be found. And he knows that if he waits any longer, there isn’t going to be anything _left_ of him for MI6 to find.

        Perhaps that is what forces his hand. Because Silva is winning, whatever this game is, and it’s only a matter of time before he is reduced to nothing. Every day is a battle, not just with Silva but with himself. It takes everything in him to open his eyes and face the world because there isn’t anything worth getting up for these days, just the chilling knowledge that Silva will come for him, determined to lay him bare and expose his every weak point, of which there are so many. He’s stopped fighting back ages ago because it just felt like such a wasted effort (the broken fingers were a decent deterrent as well), and he doesn’t think he is going to be able to last much longer. Sometimes, he thinks it might already be too late for him because he’s never going to recover from this, not really, with scars that go far deeper under his skin than anything his prison guards could have ever dreamed of.

        But there’s enough of him left right now, and so he is left with his only option: getting MI6 to come to him. The plan is simple, really. He knows where the server room is, having been there enough times when Silva decides he needs an audience to his merry misdeeds. It’s the only room he’s allowed to go to, except for this one. It’s just a matter of getting out of this room, getting through the building, and hoping that there’s no one guarding the computers.

        It is a simple plan.

        It is such a bloody stupid plan.

        Except that it had worked. It had worked _too_ well. He could tell himself that he had the element of surprise on his side because the guard who brought his meals would not have expected him to hit him with the lamp, one of the few things that wasn’t bolted down, and certainly not with enough force to render him unconscious (Q had never been the most physically fit of persons, and these past days have not been kind to him as he had quickly started to neglect his well-being). And he could tell himself that desperation can do funny things to a person, so Q had tried not to think of how easy it was as he had slipped past the guard’s unconscious body and down the hallways.

        It is the last mistake he will ever make.

* * *

        He doesn’t know how Silva figured out his plan, since it wasn’t exactly something he was sharing with anyone else over a cup of Earl Grey. He doesn’t question it. Silva has a peculiar way of predicting his actions, and so he wasn’t actually that surprised when the computer he had been working on had suddenly gone dead.

        The cruelty of it, of course, was that Silva had allowed him to get as far as he did. Because for a moment, when he had reached the server room and found no one there, had grabbed the nearest computer and bypassed its security with ease, he had felt almost like his old self. If he had a computer, he had access, and if he had access, he could actually do something to help himself. It would only have taken a few minutes to break into the MI6 networks, send up a distress signal, and wait for MI6 to send a rescue team or a set of missiles, he didn’t know which (or care). There was that voice in his head, the one that whispered that this was a trap, but he hadn’t _cared_ because he was so close he couldn’t waste the time to worry about it.

        Well, he had plenty of time to worry about it now.

        “Q.” Silva is smiling, but it’s one of those fake, unhappy smiles that usually precedes the most terrible thing Silva’s twisted mind can think of. He has a lot of familiarity with that smile.

        “Mr. Silva,” Q replies, as if they are having a perfectly ordinary chat and he isn’t being forced on his knees by two men who outsize him considerably, in front of a man who he hates more than anything in the world.

        “What did you think you were doing?”

        Q considers not answering because he doesn’t trust himself to answer. But then one of the guards strikes him, causing his head to ring, and he wants to tell them that hitting him in the head isn’t going to help them get any answers but that will probably just end with him earning another blow. So once again he considers his very limited options, and forces himself to say, “I would think it is fairly obvious.”

        Silva raises a hand, stopping the guard from hitting him again. “And what could you possibly have hoped to achieve?”

        Q feels his mouth stretch into his own, unhappy smile, “I would think that too is fairly obvious.”

        “Then you really are not that clever, are you?” Silva asks, openly mocking him now. “I thought you would have understood your place by now, but I suppose another lesson might be in order.”

        “Oh, is that what those have been?” It’s hard to keep his voice light when what he really wants to do is scream, just as he always wants to whenever he thinks about Silva on him ( _all the time, then_ ). “I thought you just got off on it. I never realized there was a _point_ behind it.”

        _Don’t antagonize your kidnapper, don’t antagonize your kidnapper, don’t antagonize your kidnapper_. He can see the neatly printed text on the sheet, and yet he cannot control himself any longer. Silva had lost the right to lecture him the moment the man stuck a cock up his arse and told him it was for his own good. _Too late, then_.

        Silva’s face is dark, even though he keeps his voice neutral. “Is that how you see me now?”

        “You don’t want to know how I see you,” Q answers. And then, with the foolhardiness of someone who has nothing left to lose because really, Silva has already taken everything from him and then some, he continues, “You think yourself special because M thought you were a little better than the rest, and her so-called betrayal of you proved only that you were not. And now you’re determined to climb over the bodies of others to prove yourself worthy to her. You’re not showing her what she lost, you’re just trying to get her to pay attention to you after she discarded you for a cause that is greater even than you. But you can’t accept that, so you’ll burn down the world and everyone in your path just so that she will think you are special again.”

        The silence between them is deafening. Not even the guards dare to breathe as Silva stares at him, again with that look like he can’t quite believe Q is there. Except Silva should know better than anyone that Q is here, considering what he has been putting him through, and finally Silva says lightly, as if Q hasn’t just said what he did, “At this point, most people would try asking for forgiveness, you realize.”

        “You’ve made your position on that quite clear, I would think.” Because how many times has he stooped to begging? How many times had he asked, only to realize he was appealing to something that no longer existed? Tiago Rodriguez might have understood the concept of mercy once, but the realization that loyalty was not a two-way street and a face half-melted by cyanide had effectively killed that sentiment off. Raoul Silva knows nothing of pity or forgiveness; once the man has set his mind to something, nothing will sway him. And what Silva wants is something no one can give him, so he takes it out on the rest of the world and then wonders plaintively why he still is not satisfied.

        Silva stands, no longer bothering to look down at Q. Instead he looks at the guards, and says something in Spanish that Q does not understand. It turns out that he does not need to; it becomes all too obvious what he is saying when the hands on him become possessive, and he feels the rush of panic accompanying the bile that is making its way up his throat as he realizes exactly what his punishment is to be.

        He can tell that Silva knows he understands, and the rising hysteria is overwhelming in its intensity. For one wild moment he wants to fling himself at Silva’s feet and beg for that forgiveness, but he can’t move and he can’t breathe, and he knows it is too late for him anyway. He’s shaking, his breath more a gasp than anything else, and he cringes when Silva rests a hand on his hair, as if trying to steady him.

        “Just remember,” Silva says quietly, fingers playing with his hair in a gesture that is almost apologetic, “you brought this on yourself.”

        “No,” he replies because no matter what he is reduced to, he cannot and will never accept that. “You did.”

* * *

        Of course, any bravado he might have still possessed disappears quickly as soon as the men push him down. He can hear himself screaming, raging, and weeping, often all at the same time. It doesn’t make a difference. He is outmatched in every sense of the word, and although he claws and bites at anything within reach like a feral animal, it doesn’t take them long to overwhelm him.

        He doesn’t remember, the moment he gives up completely. He remembers everything else in vivid, excruciating detail, but he doesn’t remember that.

        He doesn’t remember when he stopped caring.

* * *

        Q is lying on the floor where they left him, unable to drag himself to the shower or the bed or even a corner to curl up in, when the door opens. He doesn’t move as Silva steps in, closing and locking the door behind him (he doesn’t know why the man bothers; he will never be leaving this room). It takes every last ounce of his energy to close his eyes and whisper in a voice so ruined he can barely hear it, “Please.”

        He doesn’t know what he is asking for. He doesn’t care. All he knows is that he cannot stand this any longer, and even though he knows nothing will come of it, he will beg. “ _Please_.”

        The protocols say that you’re not supposed to ask for things because it gives your captor leverage. Q thinks it’s a bit late for that. Because really, he doesn’t have anything left that Silva will want, and he is so very tired. He’s tired of this, of the pain and the terror and _everything_ , of the fact that he can barely think without wanting to scream because all he knows is _this_. He just wants this to stop, even if only for a day, an hour, a _second_ because it is _all the time_ , and he is so scared that it will never end.

        He doesn’t know how much of this he says out loud, but he doesn’t care. There is no point in misplaced pride when he has been reduced to this, a little heap of broken limbs and broken mind, shuddering from the force of his sobs. He doesn’t even know when he had started crying again, having foolishly thought he had already cried himself out. It wouldn’t be the first time he turned out to be wrong.

        But Silva says nothing. Instead he kneels down next to him, silent and watchful just like that first night. The proximity of the man is enough to send him straight into fresh hysterics because it’s too much, just too much, and he really cannot hold himself together anymore. He doesn’t know why the man doesn’t look more pleased because isn’t this what Silva wanted all along, to see him so completely broken down? Once he would have sought to control himself, to not give Silva that satisfaction, but he instead just keeps saying, over and over again, “ _Please, please, please_ ,” as if it is some mantra that will save him rather than the noose he is hanging himself by.

        And still, Silva says nothing. The man doesn’t even laugh. But Q says enough for the both of them, and it is only when his words have degenerated into a keening whimper that Silva finally gathers him into an embrace, rocking him gently until he finally cries himself into blissful unconsciousness.

* * *

        Q passes the following days in a haze.

        He’s lost track of how many days he has been here, how many times Silva has taken him. He hadn’t thought it possible, but everything blurs together now and he cannot tell where one pain ends and the next begins. All that he knows is a bone-deep ache and the nagging sense that he was once better than this, but he cannot really remember what that feels like anymore.

        Right now, Q is crying. This is not unusual, not anymore. Every time he opens his eyes and realizes he is still here, he starts to sob. Sometimes, because variety is the spice of life and Q does ever so like to change things up, he starts screaming too.

        If Silva is there, the man will wipe away the tears and swallow his screams, a gesture that sends him spiraling down to fresh new levels of despair. If Silva isn’t there, he just keeps going until either the man returns or he falls back into unconsciousness, whichever comes first.

* * *

        “You should just give in.”

        Her name is Sévérine. She is beautiful, and makes everything around her pale and ugly in comparison. Especially Q, who cannot be bothered to take care of himself now because he is so exhausted, and is more than content to let himself waste away. But that is not in Silva’s interest, and so here she is. He’s a disgusting, ragged excuse of a human being right now, but she doesn’t seem to mind ( _I’ve seen worse_ , she whispers). Instead, she helps him into the tub, and while her long nails occasionally scrape against his wounds as she washes the blood away, at least it is inadvertent.

        “You don’t know what he is like. Or perhaps you do,” she quickly concedes. “He doesn’t give up. He doesn’t yield. It is how he survived China. He will not stop until he gets what he wants, and this will be no exception.”

        “You speak from experience.” His voice is a ghost of what it once was, and cracks every other word. Like his mind, which takes far too long now to process what she is saying.

        Her lips curl into a tight, unhappy smile that he has seen all too many times, on both Silva’s face and his own. “I speak from experience.”

        Sévérine might understand what he is going through better than most, but she still doesn’t let him drown himself in the tub.

        For that, he hates her.

* * *

        The protocols would disagree wholeheartedly with Sévérine, but then Q disagrees wholeheartedly with the protocols. The problem, however, is that he doesn’t know how to give in because he still doesn’t know what Silva wants.

        Fifteen years ago, M made a trade. One for six. Numerically speaking, it was a good trade. But those five agents are dead, and the last might as well be. Looking at it that way, it wasn’t that good of a trade, especially when death has made Tiago Rodriguez’s skills all the more formidable. Now Silva gets to show M that the bargain she made was all for naught, that she would have been better off if she had kept Tiago and said to hell with the rest. Never mind the political implications of the Transition; all Silva cares for are the six.

        The only thing Q cares for is why Silva doesn’t just kill him already. He’s done it before, obviously, so why can’t he just do it one more time? Silva doesn’t care much for his opinion on this matter either.

        Maybe he is still alive because Tiago Rodriguez died trying to find him. That is the most obvious of answers. After all, Tiago was caught hacking the Chinese when Frederick Coulter caught his attention and his illicit hacking might not have been found out if it was not for that interest. So in a way, Q is the reason why Silva exists, even if he is starting to think of Frederick Coulter as a past life, rather like who Tiago Rodriguez is to Raoul Silva.

        Or it could be more base than that. Perhaps Silva simply takes pleasure from worming his way under Q’s skin, so that Q never forgets who the man is and what he has done. Perhaps that is enough for Silva, to know that even if Q somehow finds a way off this island, he is never going to be able to truly escape it.

        But that doesn’t seem quite right either because there’s that look, the odd, sad little one that Q sometimes catches Silva giving him. And it makes him wonder if maybe, just maybe, Silva sees a part of Tiago in Q, and wants to make sure he eliminates all traces of the agent that M once called brilliant. Because being brilliant wasn’t enough to save Tiago, who lost half of his face to cyanide and his soul to betrayal. Q still has his face, but he’s well on his way to losing everything else.

        He can only hope that might be enough to satisfy Silva.

* * *

        “I have a question,” Silva says one day.

        It’s the first time Silva has spoken to him since that day Silva let his men have him, and he latches onto it like a dying man to a lifeboat.

        “Yes,” he replies even though the protocols (and common sense) dictate that you don’t agree to anything unless you know what it is, but right now he will do anything to end this. Silva looks almost bemused, and Q isn’t sure who he despises more.

        “So cooperative,” the man murmurs. “But that is not my question. Or is it?”

        Q doesn’t dare interrupt because then Silva might not ask, and if Silva does not ask then he won’t know what Silva wants. And if he does not know what Silva wants then he really will lose it (a quiet part him cannot help but point out that it is far too late for that). Luckily, before he reaches that point, Silva continues, “When you were seventeen, those three months. Why didn’t you just do what they wanted you to do?”

        He blinks at Silva, unsure if he’d heard that correctly. It takes a moment for him to focus, but once he does, Silva looks perfectly serious. There’s no mockery in his expression, no amusement at his confusion. Instead, there is simple curiosity, and Q wonders what Silva hopes to gain from this newest game, and how much it will hurt him to play along.

        His unbroken fingers tap frantic patterns into the sheets, although he only realizes what he is doing when Silva catches hold of his hands, stilling them with a firm squeeze. “I asked you a question, Frederick.” This time, Silva’s words are dangerous, and Q closes his eyes, desperately trying to remember what Silva had asked him.

        There are a number of reasons (besides the obvious one) why he is having trouble answering. The first is that it is rather… unexpected. Silva had never asked him questions about China, except to blame him for what happened to Tiago ( _do you feel any guilt yet?_ ). He had assumed that Silva didn’t need to ask because the man probably had access to his psych files, which meant the man knows him better than he himself does.

        The other reason, and the more difficult one, is that he doesn’t think Silva is going to like the answer.

        Silva is not the first one to ask him (although at the rate things are going, he may very well be the last), but he’s never had a satisfactory answer. He’s made up things, to get the doctors to shut up about it, but he knows that tactic is not going to work here. He doesn’t have the capacity to make up something plausible on the spot, and in any case Silva was good at seeing through his lies even when he was lucid. But the truth makes him tremble in fear because it’s not an answer at all, and he doesn’t think Silva is going to be happy with it.

        And really, he wishes he had a better answer. He _wants_ to have a better answer, if that is what it will take for Silva to be satisfied and to leave him alone. But there isn’t anything he can do but to just admit it because once again, he has no other options.

        “I don’t know,” he whispers, closing his eyes and tensing in anticipation of his punishment even though it’s the goddamned _truth_. He honestly, _honestly_ has no idea. Time and distance have not made him understand his actions back then any better; in fact, he makes it a point not to think about it because China is a chapter of his life that he prefers to remain closed. But when he does think about it, he wonders how different his life would have been if he had said yes and just did what they had wanted him to do. He had certainly been willing enough to say yes when it was MI6 asking. So why hadn’t he?

        He doesn’t know.

        He waits for Silva to hurt him. When nothing happens, he hesitantly opens his eyes to find Silva staring down at him, looking strangely thoughtful.

        “That’s what I thought,” Silva says, letting go of Q’s hands so that he can absentmindedly trace the patterns of his scars.

        Again, he blinks, not sure if he has misheard or if he has simply started hallucinating. He considers the possibility that this is one of Silva’s tricks, but he doesn’t know what the point of that would be. Granted, a lot of Silva’s actions seem pointless to possibly everyone except Silva, but at the same time the man hasn’t seemed as interested in playing games with him anymore. It is possible, if not understandable, that Silva actually means what he is saying.

        “It’s what interested me about you, all those years ago,” Silva continues, and it is almost like they are having a heart-to-heart conversation. “It was as if you were being blindly loyal for no reason at all, even if it was only going to hurt you.”

        And then Silva is planting a kiss in his hair, like he actually cares about him. “I wanted to break that,” Silva admits.

        “You’ve succeeded,” he replies.

* * *

        Silva is kinder to him, after that. He doesn’t stop making Q cry, but it’s not as… cruel anymore. It doesn’t matter though; Q has done nothing except lay there, only moving when he is forced to because he cannot bring himself to do anything else. Sometimes he sleeps, but the nightmares that haunt him there are second only to his waking hours. And sleep means waking up to the same damned room, and he wonders when he became so resigned to the possibility that this may very well be the rest of his life.

        But this, whatever this is, is only a part of Silva’s game, not the result. Q should resent that these past weeks are only a means to an end, but that would require caring, and he isn’t quite capable of that anymore. So he spends his days drifting, wishing without hoping that with the next phase of Silva’s plans, this will finally come to an end.

        Right now, he is staring at the ceiling. He thinks there might be a crack in the plaster, but he cannot be sure because it is hard to focus without his glasses and any presence of mind. He can hear Silva speaking over him, and he remembers something in the protocols about how he should remain attentive to his surroundings in case any pertinent information is revealed that can help. Not that he cares a whit for what the protocols have to say, but still he tries (half-heartedly) to listen, and he hears Silva telling Sévérine that it is time to move forward with the Shanghai assassination. That’s the general gist of it, at least; there are details, but it’s too hard to concentrate so he just goes back to staring at that crack in the ceiling.

        He doesn’t open his eyes when he hears the door close, or when Silva presses cold lips to his neck. “He’ll be coming soon, Frederick. Mummy’s new pet. And then it will all be over. You’ll like that, wouldn’t you?”

        He isn’t so sure of that. Unless Silva plans on killing him, then this is never going to be over because he is never going to be able to forget.

        ( _It’s not that he wants to die. It’s just that if this is what the rest of his life is going to be, he can really do without._ )

        But he chooses not to say anything, letting Silva do as the man pleases as he waits for everything to fall into white noise while he tries very, very hard to forget how to breathe.

* * *

        _This_ , Q thinks, _is what it means to be broken._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my third version of this chapter. I actually wrote about half of the chapter, scrapped it, wrote the entire chapter, rewrote all of that, and then scrapped all 8,000 plus words of that because it just didn’t feel right. Then I wrote this, salvaging a few scenes from the second draft (although rewriting most of that along the way).
> 
> The characters fought me all of the way, but considering what is happening, they certainly had a right to do so. Surprisingly, Silva might have given me more trouble than Q. A lot of the reworking of the chapter resulted from my not being sure what direction Silva wanted to go in. I’m starting to think he’s the only one who knows the answer to that.
> 
> I cannot say I am entirely satisfied with this chapter. But then, I don’t really think it’s possible to be, so I’ll just leave it at that.


	7. 007

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“Aren’t you a little overqualified to be delivering messages?”_
> 
> _“It’s all part of the learning curve,” she replies wryly, but then her smile fades. “And Q has gone missing.”_
> 
> _He stops. Well. That would certainly explain her tension. “Of course he has.”_

        James Bond spends three weeks in Shanghai, wondering if this is M’s attempt to retire him gently. If it is, the gesture is not appreciated.

        He devotes his nights to working his body back into shape, and his days to trying not to drink. He gives into temptation one or two times. Still, he thinks he is entitled after three weeks of nothing. Everyday, it is radio silence from M, Tanner, and Q-branch. Even the young upstart of a quartermaster hasn’t called to lecture him about good weapon maintenance, even though he seems that sort. The lack of communication is disquieting, but James has become used to silence, and he is more than ready when Patrice finally comes calling.

        The mission doesn’t go according to plan. “According to plan” would not have resulted in Patrice being a smear on the pavement below. But James has the casino chip which means he has a destination, and more importantly James has the woman’s image etched in his mind which means James has someone to interrogate.

        So he contacts Tanner, glossing over the finer details of Patrice’s untimely demise, and Tanner patches him through to R, who gets him onto the next plane to Macau.

* * *

        The knock on the door makes James pause, before trading his razor for his gun. He slides silently to the door, and as if sensing his presence, the person on the other side knocks softly again and purrs, “Room service.”

        He cannot help but smile ever so slightly at the familiar voice, even as he debates shooting her before she gets the chance to shoot him. Again. But M would probably not be pleased, so he opens the door to find Eve smiling at him, although it seems more forced than flirtatious.

        “I didn’t order anything. Not even you.”

        She leans against the doorframe, and her smile still doesn’t quite reach the corners of her mouth. He wonders if she has something on her mind, or if she simply doesn’t want to be here. Which would be interesting, as she _is_ the one who shot first. “I’ve got some new information.”

        Eve walks right by him without so much as a by your leave, but he doesn’t object as he closes the door behind her. Better to be straightforward, since Eve doesn’t seem to be the kind of distraction he favors on his missions. There are more than a few complications that are likely with her, even putting aside what happened in Istanbul. “Aren’t you a little overqualified to be delivering messages?”

        “It’s all part of the learning curve,” she replies wryly, but then her smile fades. “And Q has gone missing.”

        He stops. Well. That would certainly explain her tension. “Of course he has.” Despite his words, he is a little surprised. As important as the quartermaster is, he isn’t usually considered a target for kidnapping. Not even the young, arrogant ones with quite an acerbic tongue on him. “When did this happen?”

        “He never came back from your meeting at the National Gallery,” Eve explains, settling down on one of the chairs. “I don’t suppose you know where he went?”

        “Perhaps he had a revelation and decided that this was no life for him?” he suggests, although he doesn’t really mean it. In any case, he doesn’t mean it in a bad way; it’s the simple truth. MI6 isn’t right for everyone, and in his experience, it worked out better for everyone involved if people figured that out on their own rather than being told. Often with a nervous breakdown or a bullet.

        “Mm, he’s been there for fifteen years, so I doubt it.” Although he doesn’t show it, James is a little impressed; fifteen years is longer than even he has been at MI6. Eve is frowning though, as she adds, “We sent people to cover him when he met you. Experienced field agents. They’re all dead.”

        “Well, that’s not good.” And that may be an understatement.

        “Indeed,” she agrees, before she gives him an appraising look. “You really didn’t know? I thought for sure M would have told you already.”

        One would think. But there are a lot of things M has been doing lately that don’t make a lot of sense, so he deflects by asking, “Well, why else would you be here? M already briefed me on the list.”

        “The two may be connected.”

        “M thinks that whoever took the list took Q as well?” The question is not so much in what is being said, but what is not. What was M thinking, to not mention the quartermaster’s disappearance? If he is to understand what Eve is saying, and there is very little to misinterpret, that would mean Q has been missing for well over three weeks now. And no one had bothered to say anything, even though they thought it was connected to the list? Even if James is apparently the last one to be told of any of this, he knows that there is something very, very wrong.

        Eve is likely trying to work through those same difficulties, and what she says next only raises more questions. “She… suspects. Apparently there was a threat, right before MI6 headquarters were attacked.”

        A threat against Q before he was even Q then. So whoever had taken him was not interested in the quartermaster, but the individual occupying that title. Well, it seemed like his new quartermaster was just full of surprises, but Q is not the only one with secrets. “And M let him out, knowing that? That makes no sense.”

        Nothing about this situation did.

        “The bureaucrats insisted.” Eve doesn’t look very convinced though, and for good reason.

        “That’s quite a coincidence.”

        She nods, “Tanner has people looking into it, and of course Q-branch has been searching for him. But he’s nowhere to be found, him or the list.”

        That, at least, is unsurprising. MI6 had been looking for that bloody list for four months now, and the videos that were being posted were the first and only trace they had of it since this whole thing started. If whoever was responsible for that had taken the quartermaster as well, then it was no wonder Q had disappeared without a trace. Still, unsurprising as it was, it was certainly disturbing to think that someone had kidnapped Q only minutes after their meeting. He had not even noticed the field agents who were supposed to be watching the younger man (although granted, they might very well have been dead by that point). That either means that whoever took Q is very, very good at what they do, or it means James lost more of himself in Istanbul than he has accepted.

        Or both.

        He pushes that unpleasant thought aside, “So the mission objective?”

        “To find out who has the list and the quartermaster, and retrieve them both.” Eve tries to smile, but she’s obviously worried. About Q, the list, or something else? It doesn’t matter. “Easy, right?”

        “Delightful,” he mutters, before it occurs to him to ask, “Do we even know if Q is still breathing?”

        Her faint smile vanishes completely; apparently her concern is for the quartermaster then. “M seems to think he is.”

        “M seems to know more about what is going on than she is letting on,” he replies, careful to keep his voice neutral.

        He really need not have bothered. Eve is smart and catches on fast, so it’s no surprise when she quirks an eyebrow and asks a touch sardonically, “Are you surprised?”

        He doesn’t bother to dignify that with a response. No, he knows that the question Eve is really asking is ‘ _Are you disappointed_?’ Because although her actions seem to make little sense right now, he knows M. She wouldn’t deliberately hide something that he needs to know; it’s more likely that she would hide what he _shouldn’t_ know. He’s always known that M likes to play things close to the vest, and it shouldn’t surprise him that she’s doing the same thing now.

        But even as he tells himself that, he can’t help but feel that this is a hell of something to keep from him, as his quartermaster going missing for the better part of a month isn’t something to take lightly. It’s hard not to think that there is something else going on, although he doesn’t know what that could be. Yet all he can do now is hope that he knows her as well as he thinks he does, and concentrate on his updated mission objective.

* * *

        James eventually finds himself with four million euros, a drink, and a beautiful woman sitting across from him. Two of these things are for work, the third is an unexpected bonus.

        He waits for her to make the first move.

        “Would you mind if I asked you a business question?”

        An interesting choice of words. He likes this game, and his slow, dangerous smile is more than enough of an answer, although that doesn’t stop him from replying, “Depends on the question.”

        “It has to do with… death.” Well. She certainly has a way of getting a man’s attention.

        He picks up his drink, turning to face her. Although there is a smile on her perfect lips, just like Eve’s smile only a few hours prior, it hides none of her anxiety. “A subject in which you are well-versed.”

        Sévérine seems a bit amused by that, although she loses none of the tension in her posture. “And how would you know that?”

        “Only a certain kind of woman wears a backless dress with a Beretta 70 strapped to her thigh.”

        She lets out a throaty laugh, “One can never be too careful when handsome men in tuxedos carry Walthers.” _Less of a random killing machine, more of a personal statement_. The list isn’t the only thing in play now, but he says nothing of that as he looks into her eyes, which are cold and empty but still so _frightened_. “I am correct in assuming you killed Patrice?”

        “Yes.” There’s no point in hiding that; she had seen him in Shanghai. He sets down the drink, not wanting the distraction as he turns his full attention to her.

        “Might I ask why?”

        He considers his options; he doesn’t want to be too forward with what he is seeking, as that might only end up with her “bodyguards” getting involved (although in all likelihood, they will be involved at some point or another, it’s just a matter of when). At the same time, he is on a bit of a schedule because if Sévérine is any indication, the quartermaster doesn’t have much time left. If it isn’t already too late.

        “Do you know where he is?” he asks, more bluntly than he would under normal circumstances. But this is far from “normal,” and they both know it.

        He can’t help but notice how her hand shakes as she takes a long drag from her cigarette. She is trying so hard to appear indifferent, but no one is that good a performer. “Mr. Bond, why do you think I’m here?”

        Before he knows what he is doing, he is reaching out to seize her wrist, earning a barely suppressed gasp at the pain from his grip. The fear in her eyes is even more evident, although whether it’s fear of him or whoever has Q, he doesn’t know. He has his suspicions though. “What has he done to him?”

        She is silent, for a while. Her free hand shakes even more visibly now, yet somehow she manages to give him a flat smile that does nothing to quiet his concerns. Her words even less so, as she asks, “How much do you know about fear?”

        “All there is.” That, at least, he can be honest about.

        “Then you know what it can reduce people to.”

        He certainly doesn’t like the sound of that. Realistically, he knows that Q is not a boy at all, despite his appearance. Realistically, he knows that he does not, in fact, know _anything_ about Q except that he was good enough to be promoted when Major Boothroyd died in that explosion, and that he can give as good as he gets when it comes to banter. It’s not much to go off of.

        And really, James should know better than to judge by one’s appearance, especially when it involved someone who has been at MI6 longer than even he has. But there’s just… something about the new quartermaster. It’s not that James wants to protect him – he’s seen too much death to even entertain that thought – but more that Q seems to deserve better than getting caught up in any of this. Q might have a brilliant mind and experienced more than James thought, but he has a suspicion that Q isn’t prepared to withstand whoever could make this woman before him so beautiful and so _dead_ , all at the same time. Few people could.

        And judging by her reaction, he doesn’t think he is the only one who feels this way.

        “I can help him,” he says quietly. It may be possible that he actually means it this time, if he is given the opportunity.

        She shakes her head as if she pities him for being naïve. “I don’t think so.” And this, it seems, is confirmation enough that he is probably too late; three weeks can be a very, very long time, after all. He wonders if he could have done something more if M had just _told_ him what was going on. He wonders again why she hadn’t.

        Still, he presses on. He has a mission to complete, after all. “I can try.”

        “How?”

        “Bring me to him. That’s what you were sent here to do, wasn’t it?”

        This time, she does pause, looking him over as if she is trying to decide something. He can see in her dark eyes the moment she makes up her mind, and she suddenly leans close. He can almost feel the desperation coming off of her as she whispers, “Can you kill him?” She is no longer speaking of Q.

        He doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.” Because if there is one thing he is good at, it’s pulling triggers in the name of Queen and country.

        “ _Will you_?”

        He can’t help but smile at this because really now, he’s even better at pulling triggers when whoever he’s killing deserves it. And if there’s one thing he’s taken away from this conversation, it’s that Sévérine’s master is very much one of those people who deserves a bullet between the eyes.

        “Someone usually dies.”

* * *

        He’s right of course. He usually is because, as Sévérine had so astutely noticed, he is quite an expert when it comes to death.

        One of her guards is eaten by a komodo dragon, along with his Walther. He is pretty sure Q is going to have a fit over that one, assuming that he gets the opportunity to tell the quartermaster anything at all. He doesn’t dwell too long on that possibility though, as he hands the briefcase and its four million euros to Eve. Hopefully some of it will trickle back down to Q-branch’s budget because until he is given reason to believe otherwise, he will be operating under the assumption that Q will be back and in a position to be unhappy because James has once again destroyed his department’s technological offerings.

        It’s preferable to the alternative, in any case.

        He soon finds himself on the Chimera, North Harbor, Berth 7, with plenty of time to spare. When he presents himself to Sévérine, she holds onto him as if she believes this will be her last opportunity to breathe. Considering where and who they are headed towards, she may have a point. A tiny part of him wonders if this is right, given what he knows about her ( _Macau sex trade, probably… what, twelve, thirteen?_ ), but he needs to forget, just for a moment. He needs to forget about all of it: Q, the list, M and all of her secrets. He needs to forget his exhaustion, his trembling aim, his body deteriorating despite all of his best efforts. He needs _this_. So he gives in, despite the many, many reasons not to, and tries to forget, for this moment at least, what will be coming next.

* * *

        Once again, things don’t go according to plan. He’s in the right place, but “according to plan” would not have resulted in him being tied to a chair (not in this case, at least).

        He doesn’t know where Sévérine is. She had been very quiet in the morning, as if she already knew she was condemned. Given the desperation bleeding into her every act the previous night, she has probably known that for a long time. He doesn’t ask about her, just in case asking would condemn her, and in any case he isn’t sure what to say when it comes to Raoul Silva.

        Considering that this is the man who blew MI6 up, who has taken a list and a quartermaster, who has ruined lives with such ease… he doesn’t look all that impressive. Strange, yes, but dangerous? He looks more eccentric than dangerous, but then James has been around long enough that the two are oftentimes interchangeable.

        At the moment, Silva is telling him a story about an island and two rats. He stopped paying attention when Silva mimed a rat nibbling, trying to test his bonds without being too obvious about it. But his hands are tied well and in any case, the guards behind him have proven to be very good at their jobs so far.

        And of course, there is also Silva to contend with. Peculiar as he may be, James knows better than to underestimate someone who has already caused so damage, and is likely to do more harm if he isn’t taken down like the mad dog he is. He thinks back to what Tanner told him, that they think the attack on MI6 is connected to M’s past. There’s always a grain of truth in gossip, especially at an intelligence agency, and he decides to find out exactly how much of it was true this time. “Station H, am I right? Hong Kong?”

        Silva doesn’t even blink; instead, he looks quite pleased that James is already caught up. “Mmhmm. ’86 to ’97. Back then, I was her favorite.” Is that a hint of pride, and perhaps even a little bit of jealousy in the man’s voice? He doesn’t get the chance to ask as Silva turns the attack back at him. “And you’re not nearly the agent I was, I can tell you that. Just look at you, barely held together by your pills and your drink.”

        James gives him the courtesy of a soft, bitter chuckle. He doesn’t need Silva telling him what he already knows, but he plays along. “Don’t forget my pathetic love of country.”

        “As if that ever saved anyone,” Silva murmurs so softly that he nearly doesn’t catch it. “How many times have you lied, betrayed, and killed for your country? How many times have you been betrayed for your country? And yet still you cling to your faith in that old woman, when all she does is lie to you.”

        “She’s never lied to me,” he responds far too quickly ( _You really didn’t know? I thought for sure M would have told you already._ ), and knows he has made a mistake. Silva is grinning triumphantly now, knowing he has caught James in a lie of his own.

        “No?” Silva asks, giving him a chance to amend his statement. They both know he won’t be taking it.

        “No.”

        “A lie by omission is still a lie,” Silva points out, leaning in close. He has a feeling he knows exactly what Silva is referring to, and that makes him grimace slightly. How much does the man already know? He doesn’t have long to consider that, as Silva’s fingers brush lightly against his shirt, lingering over the buttons. The intent there is hard to miss. “Do you even know why you are here?”

        If this is Silva’s attempt to intimidate him, the man will have to try harder. Silva isn’t the only one who has been at this for far too long, and even if James is held together only by pills and drink and his pathetic love for country, he’s seen and been through enough not to be affected by this little power play. He doesn’t even try to move away from the touch, instead saying, “I’m not sure why you’re asking when you seem to know already.”

        Unless one counted Silva’s need to prove he is always one step ahead, but he has a feeling that is not something that needs to be said out loud. It’s fairly obvious already.

        Silva seems to ignore his pointed comment, focused instead on his explorations. James makes sure not to even tense when his shirt is slowly pulled open, and Silva lets out a soft, almost sympathetic sound as he examines the scarring on his chest. “Oof. See what she’s done to you?”

        The man seems a little too fascinated by it, which raises some interesting questions of their own. “Are you sure this is just about M?”

        He gets a distracted nod in reply. “It’s about her. And you. And me.”

        “And Q?”

        Silva pauses in his exploration. Not in surprise, as he had probably been expecting that question eventually. Instead, he seems to be deciding where to take this next, and after a short moment he re-buttons James’ shirt. James would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little relieved, but he knows better than to let down his guard as Silva leans back in his chair, much too casual. “Is that what you are here for? The boy?”

        “I am told that despite his appearance, he is not actually that young.”

        “He seems young.” Silva is smiling again, all teeth and no humor. “He _feels_ young.”

        A shiver runs down his spine. Even though Silva is only saying what James already knows, there is no mistaking the undertone of that particular statement. And combined with Silva’s earlier display… nothing good can come out of this. “If you’ve hurt him.” It is not a question. It is a promise.

        One that Silva easily takes in stride. “Oh, Mr. Bond!” The mock offense on his face is nothing short of gloating. “I didn’t _need_ to hurt him. They tortured him before, you know. In China. Did you know that?”

        He hadn’t, and some of that surprise (really, he doesn’t know the quartermaster at _all_ , and he’s starting to question if he knows M either) must show up on his face given the sick satisfaction in Silva’s eyes at, once again, knowing something that he had not. “No… no, I didn’t think so. Yes, they had him in their clutches for three months, and did all sorts of nasty things to him. Just between you and me, they weren’t very creative about it, but still, we must give credit when it is due. He didn’t give in, not once! Impressive, don’t you think?”

        “Very,” he somehow manages to reply dryly, but his efforts are ignored as Silva just nods in agreement.

        “So I thought to myself, hmm, time for something new. After all, that physical stuff… so dull, so _dull_. There are much more interesting ways to ruin someone, which I’m sure you would know all about.” Silva is giving him that exaggeratedly innocent look, and he feels the sudden, terrible desire to lean over and rip the man’s face off.

        He doesn’t give into the impulse though. He couldn’t, in any case, and it wouldn’t help anyone at this point. Except to make him feel a little better.

        “That seems like something you would be better acquainted with than me,” he finally says, careful to keep his voice casual. “It seems like you know a lot about torture.” Because James recognizes it, the animosity that comes with being tortured. He’s felt it enough times, although never with such intensity as the man before him.

        “Oh, you have no idea,” Silva replies, a hint of teasing in his voice. But there is a shadow in his eyes, one that James recognizes because he sees it every time he looks in the mirror. “But we digress. So. To business, then! Tell me, James, the real reason why you are here?”

        James raises an eyebrow, and replies with exaggerated patience, “I believe we were just talking about the quarter-”

        “Wrong!” Silva cuts off, shaking his head as if James has disappointed him. Well. He doubts he is the first. “Wrong, wrong, wrong! Or are you telling me you don’t want this?”

        Silva stands and moves for the silver case on one of the nearby desks, rapidly pressing a few keys before he spins it around so Bond can see what is on the screen. A video is playing. “This is the newest one. Five names. Five identities. Five bullets waiting for them… or in some cases, a headman’s blade. Sometimes the old ways are best, no?” Again, Silva doesn’t wait for a response, carefully closing the case and returning to sit himself across from James. “Which were you to prioritize, hmm?”

        Of course he knows what answer Silva wants, but that doesn’t mean he has to give it to him. “Well, seeing how anything short of both would be a failure, I never really thought about it.”

        He gets a scoff in return for his trouble. “Now that’s no fun, no fun at all. What if I was to tell you that you could have one? No questions asked! I would give you one, and you could go on your way, but I would get to keep the other.” Silva’s smile is cruel and all too knowing now. “Which were you told to choose? Do I even need to ask, since she gave _you_ up easily enough for the list. What is one little fool in Q-branch, compared to the lives of the many?”

        “Apparently quite a bit, if you’ve taken him.”

        Silva blinks; this time, he can tell that he has caught the man off-guard. But he knows better than to savor that small victory. It’s meaningless in any case because Silva recovers well, letting out a self-depreciating laugh. “Ah, well. The old lady seemed to think he was worth something. She paid for him with me, did you know? That was what I was worth: five agents and that boy.”

        This time, the new information about Q’s past doesn’t surprise him, as it neatly explains Silva’s fixation with Q. Not that there needs to be any explanation for that; Silva certainly has enough hatred of M, and James knows from experience that hatred can justify many things. He doesn’t let that distract him though, as he replies dryly, “Looks to me like they overpaid.”

        He is most certainly not talking about M.

        He expects Silva to react with violence. That would certainly seem to fit his style. But instead, Silva just looks at him calmly, a reminder of how _dangerous_ the man actually is. It would be so easy to not take him seriously, with that bleach-blonde hair and a showman’s ways, but this is the man who blew up MI6 and kidnapped the quartermaster despite a protective detail. Silva may not seem intimidating at first glance, but he has proven himself many times over in how destructive he can be.

        “I might have given you less credit than I should have,” Silva finally says, long after the silence has become suffocating. “She chose well with you, I think.”

        He shrugs, trying to appear uncaring that Silva seemed so determined to write him off. It makes him wonder why Silva even bothered to have him brought here alive, but he’s sure that it’s all part of some plan to undermine M. How Silva expects to do that with him, when he barely managed to be cleared for active duty, he doesn’t know. M didn’t even think he was important enough to inform about Q’s disappearance. That shouldn’t eat away at him like this, but it _does_. No matter how well he thinks he understands her, she still manages to surprise him every time, and not in a good way. But he can’t dwell on that right now, not when Silva is intent on testing him. So he says, “I wouldn’t make it a habit of underestimating people if I was you.”

        “And yet here you are,” Silva replies. “Why else would you be here, if you had not underestimated how little the old lady actually cares about you?”

        “Someone is projecting.”

        “Someone is being realistic,” Silva corrects before standing. He tenses slightly, expecting this is where the conversation ends and the torture begins, but instead Silva just walks behind him and undoes the binds on his wrists. As soon as they are free, he wrenches them apart, but he is all too aware that there are still the guards to contend with, as well as Silva himself. So he doesn’t move to stand as Silva moves back in front of him, a mocking smile on his face. “So. I have something you want. I’ve showed you one of those things, but I suppose I should let you see the other thing you were sent here to retrieve.”

        It takes him a moment to realize what Silva is saying, and it immediately puts him on guard. Silva’s audacity is galling; the man is dangling everything James needs for this mission to succeed – freedom, the list, _Q_ – in front of his face, confident that he won’t be able to do anything about it. The arrogance makes him want to scowl, but more so is the fact that at the moment, at least, Silva is right. All he can do now is follow Silva’s lead, and while he would like nothing more than to surprise the bastard by being contrary, he settles for saying as off-handedly as he can manage, “If you insist.”

        Silva laughs, “So cold. She taught you well.” He turns his back on James, absolutely fearless, gesturing vaguely at him to follow. “Come. Let me show you something. After all, you did come all this way.”

        He does as asked, as do the guards that have been standing in the background. Silva leads the group to a set of heavy metal doors leading outside, and pushes them open. The sudden sunlight is blinding, but he doesn’t let it bother him as he pulls out the sunglasses that Silva’s men hadn’t taken from him. As his eyes adjust, he can just make out two figures among the rubble, and it doesn’t take him very long at all to realize that the island isn’t the only thing that has been ruined by Silva.

        And then the man himself is there, at his shoulder, and he can practically feel the satisfied smile on Silva’s face as he says, almost carelessly, “Mind you though, I might have broken him a little.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there were… complications with this chapter. Pretty much all self-inflicted.
> 
> This is probably about… three-fourths of what I had originally planned for the chapter. It wasn’t until I really started writing this chapter that it occurred to me exactly how much I had wanted to cover and how terrible it could be for the pacing, but I didn’t want to split it because I didn’t think there was a good place for a chapter break. But then I reached a point where I thought there was a good point to split the chapter, said ‘hooray!’ and did so, thinking that was about half of the chapter.
> 
> And then I promptly got stuck on chapter 8.
> 
> After multiple, multiple rewrites of the beginning of chapter 8, it finally occurred to me that it was never going to work as planned. Of course, this occurred to me the night before this chapter was supposed to be posted (okay, that’s a lie; it occurred to me before but I thought (hoped?) I was overreacting and refused to commit to that idea until that night). Slightly problematic. So I spent my time reworking the end of this chapter to set up for the next one, moving the more important dialogue points over (the rest will probably be rewritten or just excised because it was part of the problem).
> 
> So the bottom line is that due to my last-minute decisions, as well as massive problems suddenly cropping up at work, there definitely won’t be an update next week. My sincerest apologies for the delay. I do hope very much to get the chapter up by the following week though, and will try very hard to keep that promise.


	8. 007

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Silva laughs, a sharp, bitter sound. “We’re the things that get left behind. The ones who are lost because there’s something more important. Over and over again, we allow her to use us as her pawns, to sacrifice everything we have until there is nothing left to give, and yet at the end of the day she never learns the error of her ways because there is always someone willing to take our place.”_

        The first thing he notices isn’t actually Q. It’s Sévérine. She’s slumped in the crook of a fallen statue’s shoulder, her wrists tied with dark rope and her body held in place by even thicker bonds around her thin waist – a dramatic gesture, no doubt, because she isn’t going anywhere. She slowly straightens up when she senses their presence, allowing him to see how her beauty has been marred. There’s a gash across her left eyebrow, and her lips – so perfect, just the night before – are ruined, blood congealing at the corner of her mouth.

        Strangely, she doesn’t look at him. He follows her gaze, to the figure sprawled next to one of two rickety tables that have been set up, and suddenly, he knows exactly why as everything else in the world fades quickly into the background.

* * *

        In the short amount of time that James has known him, he has quickly realized that Silva has a tendency of exaggerating. Exaggerated features, exaggerated gestures, exaggerated words.

        He was not, however, exaggerating when it came to Q. James really wishes he had been.

        He had thought that Q looked young when they first met, wearing that odd suit and oversized parka, and sprouting an understated arrogance that he found both infuriating and oddly endearing. They had bantered, using words to measure the worth of the other, and while he couldn’t speak to what Q’s thoughts were, he for one had not found the new quartermaster lacking. Despite his initial dismay at Q’s youth, he had recognized the bright intelligence in the younger man’s eyes, and had appreciated the professional (if slightly clipped) way Q had given him his equipment and sent him on his way.

        More significantly, he had appreciated Q’s _honesty_ ; the younger man openly doubted him, having no interest in coddling his ego, and somehow he had known that this was someone he could come to trust. Not just to give him the means to staying alive on a mission, but to keep him honest about himself, even at a time he didn’t know he needed it.

        There is nothing left of that now.

        Instead, Q is huddled into himself, as if he is trying desperately not to be noticed. To some extent, it’s working; unlike Sévérine, whose dark red dress stands out against the washed our colors of the island, his pale skin blends disconcertingly well into the background. It would be so easy to overlook him, to write him off again based on appearance alone, but now that James has set eyes on him, he can’t pull his attention away.

        Like Sévérine, Q’s wrists are bound with dark rope, although again it hardly seems necessary as his fingers tap out an uneven pattern, the only sign that he is awake. His body is littered with the tell-tale signs of abuse ( _rape_ ): bruises, three broken fingers, bite marks, half-healed cuts and blood on the thighs, along with evidence of malnutrition and severe sleep deprivation. Someone has taken his glasses, and his hair is longer and even more uncontrolled than his appearance at the National Gallery, adding to the impression of-

        It isn’t youth, James realizes suddenly. It isn’t that Q looks young.

        It’s that he looks wrecked.

* * *

        The realization hits like a punch to the gut. He doesn’t know why. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t prepared for this. After all, Sévérine had hinted at it, and Silva was even less subtle ( _He_ feels _young_ ). And like it or not, this isn’t the first time he has seen this sort of thing, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. As harsh as that may sound, it’s the reality of the world and the people who inhabit it, and James has known this truth for a very, very long time.

        Despite that truth, shock and rage bubble within him, just waiting to explode. He clamps down on the rage (for now, at least) but he can’t control the shock because the change in three weeks is truly staggering. Three weeks ago, Q had been sharp, capable, and confident even in the face of James’s blatant skepticism. Three weeks ago, Q had made him feel _outdated_ , a relic from the days of chasing spies down dark corridors. But now, as Silva walks past him (his hands spasm ever so slightly, wanting to wrap around the man’s neck) and kneels down next to the trembling figure, Q can’t even open his eyes to face them.

        “Frederick,” Silva says in an almost lilting croon, and it takes him a moment to realize that the man is talking to Q. When the greeting gets no reaction, Silva sighs dramatically and gives James an almost apologetic look that nearly sets him off. Again, he has to force himself to remain still as one hand reaches out to smooth down messy black hair before the other tilts Q’s head up, as if the quartermaster is a small child being roused from bed. “It’s time to wake up, Frederick.”

        But Q isn’t a child and he isn’t asleep, and James can’t blame him when he just shuts his eyes tighter and shakes his head slowly, like he’s trying to deny what is happening. But Silva isn’t one to be ignored, taking hold of his jaw and squeezing tightly until Q finally lets out a broken sob and opens his eyes. Somehow, that is worse, the defeated, almost apathetic look that James has seen too many times for his liking, and why does it matter so much more this time?

        “That’s better,” Silva says approvingly, glancing up at James to make sure that he is watching. It confirms that this little display is for his benefit only, and Q is simply the vehicle by which Silva is playing this game. His jaw clenches, but still he says nothing, and Silva looks back down at the quartermaster. “After all, he did come all this way to find you. Well…” Silva pauses, making a show of reconsidering that statement before continuing, “you and the list. Although we both know which one he will choose if pressed, don’t we? We both know which one the old lady told him to choose.”

        He can’t contradict that (well, he could in the sense that M hadn’t actually told him anything because M hadn’t even found it necessary to inform that Q had gone missing until a day ago, but that is a detail that changes nothing about what Silva is really saying), so he doesn’t. As different as Q is from the person he met three weeks ago, he very much doubts that even Q has changed that much.  The quartermaster knows how the business works; he has to, if he’s been at MI6 for fifteen years. And he probably understands that sentiment even better now than ever before because if Silva hasn’t spent the past three weeks engraining it into Q’s brain, he will eat his own gun.

        Silva gives him a small smile, like he knows what he is thinking. “It’s almost like this island, don’t you think? They left it so quickly, they left everything behind. All in the name of survival. All in the name of the greater good.” Silva laughs, a sharp, bitter sound. “We’re the things that get left behind. The ones who are lost because there’s something more important. Over and over again, we allow her to use us as her pawns, to sacrifice everything we have until there is nothing left to give, and yet at the end of the day she never learns the error of her ways because there is _always_ someone willing to take our place.”

        He knows exactly who that barb is aimed at, but he doesn’t rise to the bait. Maybe he would have, if it was just him and Silva and several heavily armed guards, but he has Q to consider now. Because despite Silva’s suggestions to the contrary, he was told to retrieve Q, and until he is ordered otherwise (and maybe not even then), that is exactly what he plans on doing. And to do so, he needs Q alive, and Silva is too close to the quartermaster right now. He doesn’t doubt that Silva can harm Q even more than he already has if provoked, and Silva is too unpredictable to know how he might respond even to words. It makes dealing with the man that much harder, but that is probably the point.

        So he ignores how Silva watches him, looking for something, or the way his eyes darken in hatred when he doesn’t find it. The hand that had been gripping Q’s chin lets go and begins to move down, lazily tracing scars that are too old to have been caused by Silva. Q is shaking, and it takes everything in him not to lunge forward and throw the man off, but he’ll probably be riddled with bullet holes before he can even get close. And then where will that leave Q?

        The dull, impotent rage must show on his face because Silva rewards them both with a satisfied grin, although his hand doesn’t still. “Well. She isn’t the only one who knows how to treat people as disposable. There’s nothing… nothing superfluous in my life anymore. When a thing is redundant, it is-” Silva’s smile fades, and his voice drops so low that it’s almost hard to hear the last word, “- _eliminated_.”

        From the corner of his eye, he can see Sévérine’s look of resignation; she apparently has no doubt what her role is in Silva’s story. As for Q and himself… “So where does that leave us?”

        “You? You’re just a replacement, and a poor one at that.” Silva says it so matter-of-factly that he almost believes him despite himself. “And the boy? I’m afraid there’s not much left of him, don’t you agree?”

        “And whose fault is that?”

        Silva pretends to consider the question, before suggesting, “Isn’t the more apt question who isn’t to blame?”

        He can’t begin to form a response to that when Silva abruptly releases Q, standing so that he can take hold of the bottle of whisky sitting on the table that Q is collapsed next to. It looks so ordinary, the two shot glasses and a little vase of cut flowers sitting on a silver tray, but the smile on Silva’s face is anything but. “Fifty-year old Macallan. A particular favorite of yours, I understand.”

        The sudden attempt at charm is disquieting, as is the abrupt change in topic. It really is the perfect tactic for throwing someone off their game, and he almost has to admire how good Silva is at it. But even in the privacy of his own mind, he can’t give Silva any credit as he warily watches the man pour two glasses.

        Then Silva is pressing a shot glass into his hand, accompanied by a cheerful, “So what’s the toast? To those who know better?” The man lets out a hollow laugh at his private joke and clinks the glasses together, before turning away without a second look.

        He glances down at the drink. It’s not his favorite, but it’s not bad either. He wants to drink it, to lose himself in that temporary burn, but then he sees Q. The quartermaster’s eyes are closed again, as if he is trying to block out the world, his breathing unsteady as thin fingers tap on the ground. And he realizes then what it really means to be lost, and he knows that he doesn’t want to accept anything Silva has to offer him, not even a drink. He wants nothing to do with the man, except to kill him. But since that option isn’t being offered to him yet, he settles for putting the glass down and watching Silva saunter over to where Sévérine is bound.

        “Darling, darling, your lovers are here.” Silva sing-songs, before leaning in for a deep kiss. Sévérine looks caught between flinching back or responding in like, in the desperate hope that it might save her life, but he is having none of that. He breaks the kiss, pulling away from her futile attempts to please him so that he might just let her live. “No, no, no, no. Stand up straight, keep still. And whatever you do, don’t lose your head, don’t lose-” he stretches the word out as he balances the shot glass on her head, stepping back with a triumphant smile that James can’t see but knows is there, “-your head. Don’t lose your head.”

        Then he is turning his back on her, all interest in her existence lost as he returns his attention to James. “Time to prove your worth, Mr. Bond. After all, she did send you specifically, although I don’t know what she hoped to achieve.” Silva walks over to the other table, opening the case and pulling out two old-fashioned pistols.

        “Let’s see… who can be the first to knock the glass from her head.” He hands James the weapon, and one guard brings the gun up to the back of his head in case he should get any ideas. Silva’s guards are trained unfortunately well; as if knowing that he doesn’t have an ounce of self-preservation (why else would he be here?), another guard points a gun down at Q’s head in a clear warning, although Q doesn’t notice.

        He doesn’t have the same luxury though as Silva offers generously, “And just to be sporting, I’ll let you go first.”

        It’s not sporting; it’s a test he cannot hope to pass. He barely passed his marksmanship tests, and he has no delusions that he is capable of hitting that target, especially with such an unfamiliar weapon. He isn’t even sure he could have reliably hit it before Istanbul, and they are very, very far from Istanbul right now.

        But there’s that gun to his head, and to Q’s as well, so he has no choice but to take the sunglasses off and set them down on the table with the silver tray. He considers, briefly, how long he might be able to drag this out, but the threat to the quartermaster is too great and Silva is too smart to be fooled. There’s still no sign of MI6, and he curses them silently as he cocks the pistol and takes aim.

        He can’t help but jerk when Silva leans in much too close and whispers, “Let’s see who ends up on top.”

        It’s just a distraction, so he ignores it. But less easily ignored is Sévérine, who obeys Silva’s command to stand up straight. Her dark make-up is smeared but she doesn’t cry and she doesn’t beg, just looks at him with unflinching silence. He wishes he could do more to save her, and they both know that he can’t. Because then Silva is sighing regretfully, his murmured words easily stoking every fear and self-doubt James has. “Oh, I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it! Did you really die that day? Is there anything, _anything_ left of the old 007? How did she expect you to save the poor boy when you can’t even save yourself?”

        He fires. The shot goes too far to the right, chipping the stone above her shoulder.

        Silva barely gives him time to process what he has just done when the man is next to him. Without hesitation, Silva fires. He barely bothers to look at where he’s shooting; aim is not necessary for him. She crumples, her upper body snapping forward because the rope at her waist is the only thing holding up her corpse, and the shot glass drops to the ground. It is soon followed by her blood.

        But none of that matters to Silva, who true to his word cares nothing for the woman he has just murdered. “I win. What do you say to that?” He isn’t gloating. Again, his tone is matter-of-fact, like he is only speaking the truth. And once again, James can’t really dispute it.

        “It’s a waste of good scotch.” It’s hard to keep his voice even, as he forces himself to look away from another person he couldn’t save. His hands twitch to grab the gun from the guard behind him, and he thinks he could make it too, but he can’t because the other guard is still pointing a gun at Q. While he is fairly certain that Silva would prefer for this to be a long, drawn-out thing, he doesn’t doubt that Silva will hesitate in shooting them both if he causes too much trouble.

        Silva laughs, a delighted, manic sound. “Oh, Mr. Bond! So cold, so uncaring; did she really mean so little to you? No wonder Mother likes you so. But….” His eyes narrow, and there is no humor in his question as his eyes flick over to the quartermaster, and James feels his heart drop as he realizes what is coming. “Shall we try again?”

        _Fuck_.

* * *

        Sévérine’s body is carelessly tossed aside, a trail of blood leading from the broken pieces of the statue to where her corpse now lies. James can do nothing as Q is forced to his feet, his movements clumsy as Silva personally escorts him to where she had stood only moments before. Where she had died. From the way he moves, as if in a daze, any unsteadiness seems attributed to physical and mental exhaustion rather than the fact that he is essentially being led out like a lamb to slaughter. Because they all know that James can’t save him, not at this game.

        The pistol is taken from him, one of the guards expertly reloading it before handing it back, and he wonders how many times this has been done before. But he can only tighten his grip on the weapon as he watches what is happening a few yards away with growing unease.

        He had been hoping – expecting, really – that it wouldn’t come down to this. He had thought MI6 would be here by now, especially considering the stakes of this mission, but still there has been nothing. He has no idea where the bloody hell they are, but even if they were to show up at this exact moment, he’s in no position to protect Q from any coordinated attack.

        Of course, he should know better than to rely on MI6 to rescue them, and so he _hadn’t_ relied on them. Because the real reason why he hadn’t expected this was because he never thought Silva would go this far, not after he has proven his point about James’s many weaknesses with Sévérine’s death. Not after what he has already _done_ to Q. What would be the point then of what he had done to Q in the past weeks if he planned on repeating the same game they had just played?

        The easy explanation, of course, is that the man is a sadist and no other reason beyond that is needed. But if he’s learned anything so far, it’s that Silva is not so easily explained. While that could be a part of it (probably _is_ a part of it), it can’t be all of it. There has to be something else. The problem is that James has no idea what that something else is, if Silva goes through with this.

        It’s possible that the only people who would understand what is happening now is Silva and M herself, and the rest of them are just pieces to the both of them. It’s an uncharitable thought towards M, no doubt, but getting shot off a moving train can do that to a person ( _Take the bloody shot_ ).

        He wonders if Q might also know, but if he does he’s certainly not saying. Right now, Q is having so much trouble standing on his own that Silva has to assist him, the very picture of a perfect gentleman if ignoring the obvious. But where James had expected Silva to take advantage of the situation, to once again let hands linger in a transparent effort to make Q break down even further, his motions are surprisingly efficient as he carefully props Q against the broken stone, forgoing the use of the rope that had kept Sévérine in place.

        Compared to the open contempt with which Silva had treated Sévérine earlier, his actions are gentle, almost (disturbingly) tender. It’s not even like his earlier interaction with Q, which had seemed more of a vindictive show for James. Instead, as just between himself and Q, Silva doesn’t seem to be interested in actively harming the quartermaster any more. Not that it matters when he’s done so much already, but James just isn’t sure why he is so careful to not touch Q any more than he must. What is one more scrape or wound, after what he has already put the younger man through?

        As Silva carefully places the shot glass that James had rejected earlier on Q’s head, Q finally opens his eyes and looks at the man. And for the first time, his eyes actually seem to focus and he says something, but the words are so soft that only Silva can hear.

        Whatever he says apparently isn’t enough. Silva just shakes his head and places a finger on Q’s lips in a warning gesture. “Shh, shh, there’s no need for that, Frederick. I promised you, did I not? And you should know by now that I always keep my promises.”

        The words should be a threat, but instead they’re offered almost as a comfort, although Q doesn’t acknowledge them as such. There is so much fear in his eyes now and he looks like he wants to say more, but then Silva leans in to whisper something. Judging from Q’s expression, it’s not a threat, but it is enough to quiet him. And then Silva is pressing a quick kiss on Q’s forehead, before stepping back to join James and his other guards.

        By the time he reaches them, his entire demeanor has reverted back to that eccentric, psychotic man who cares nothing for anyone or anything. The contrast is so jarring that James wonders if he just imagined what had passed between Silva and Q only moments before, but then Silva is smiling broadly at him. “So, Mr. Bond. In all fairness, it should be my turn to go first, but I am a generous man. I can afford to let you go first again.” Of course he can. Silva doesn’t think he can make the shot, and for good reason.

        With that thought in mind, he can’t move as he stares at the target. At _Q_. He doesn’t owe the quartermaster anything; if he hits him, it would just be an unfortunate part of the mission, and he’s used to missions going badly. Hell, at this point, it might even be a _mercy_. But even if he was willing to accept that as true, he still can’t bring himself to raise the gun and take aim, especially given the consequences of what happened just minutes ago.

        Except he doesn’t have a choice. Silva is tapping his own pistol on his leg, and when James continues not to move, the man offers pleasantly, “If you want, I can go first.”

        There’s no putting it off any longer. He raises the pistol, taking aim even though all he can think about is how much he hates that Silva is right about the part of him that died in Istanbul. He hates that he cannot rely on himself anymore, for reasons that go beyond taking a bullet on M’s orders. He hates that he is more likely to shoot Q than the glass sitting precariously on his head.

        And most of all, when he pulls the trigger and the shot goes too far to the left, he hates how Q just doesn’t care that James has failed him.

        Silva doesn’t laugh. He just sighs in disappointment, like he is sad on their behalves that James cannot make the bloody shot. James wants to react with violence, except there’s that gun at his head and Silva is raising his own pistol at Q, and all he can feel is the cold as Silva says, “My turn.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the original plan was for this to be a part of chapter 7, except that it was getting long. Not in terms of length since chapter 6 was long, but in terms of what was happening, it seemed a little bit too much.
> 
> I thought it would be fine to split chapter 7 because there was supposed to be an involved conversation between Silva and Bond after Q is introduced. Except after rewriting it about five times, I finally had to accept that it just wasn’t going to happen. So I moved the important parts of the conversation to chapter 7 and shoved the group out the door, but even that was problematic because once I took out the conversation, there wasn’t much left except the marksmanship scene. As a result, I suspect there is a sense that this chapter is both too short and too long because length-wise it’s on the shorter side, but considering how little seemed to happen, I for one came out of it thinking, “This covers only a _fifth_ of what was supposed to be chapter 7, and you _still_ made it this long?” I honestly don’t know how much was necessary and how much was me trying to justify having this chapter as a standalone. I had considered moving things in from chapter 9, but… well, I’m a terrible human being and I wanted to end the chapter here.


	9. 007

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _He doesn’t think, just acts on the instincts that have helped keep him alive all of this time, using the guns as his weapons and the human bodies as his shields, and it’s almost a relief to be able to stop thinking and simply act. There’s an adrenaline rush in surviving when those around him do not, an animalistic need to release his pent up rage and frustration, and the very human satisfaction in destroying those who have assisted Silva in the man’s madness._

        The shot glass goes flying. Q’s knees buckle, but there’s no sudden bloom of red, no sudden _permanent_ loss of breath. Q falls, but that’s only because he doesn’t have the strength or will to stand any longer, now that it is no longer required. James can relate, breathless from the overwhelming shock (and horror), and he wasn’t even the one getting shot at.

        But Silva is smirking at him, handing the gun back to one of the guards, and he knows he cannot show any weakness. Not with someone like Silva, who can take any flaw and magnify it until there is nothing else left. “My god, James, you didn’t think I would actually shoot the boy, did you? After everything he’s been through, that would just be so… anticlimactic, don’t you think?”

        He tightens his hold on the pistol; no one has bothered to take it, as it was useless without any ammo. “Then what was the point of that?” Not that there needs to be one.

        “To show you,” Silva replies easily, but his expression is malicious. “I can be generous. Merciful, even.”

        James spares a glance at Q, at the mess of bruises and the blood between his legs and the deadness in his eyes when he can be bothered to open them. “You call that mercy?”

        “I call that payment rendered,” Silva answers, waving a hand dismissively at the quartermaster, who still hasn’t bothered to get to his feet. James supposes there isn’t really much point, now that no one is trying to shoot him. Even the guards’ attention are fully on James, just as Silva’s is. It’s not a pleasant place to be, and James can only wonder how long Q lasted under those circumstances. Longer than could have been expected of him, and he questions again why no one had told him what was happening. Could he have done something? Could this have been avoided? But Silva is not the one to ask, and he tries to pay some attention as the man continues, “She paid for him with me. Isn’t it only fair that I get a piece of that?”

        “Is it really that simple?” he asks, skeptical at best.

        Silva shrugs. “Sometimes the simplest explanations are the best.”

        James doesn’t believe it. The fact that Silva spared Q only makes him more certain that Silva’s actions are just part of a greater ploy, and Silva’s evasiveness is far from reassuring. But he doesn’t get the chance to call the man out on his lies when Silva says, “The real question is why it matters so much to you. Surely you have done the same thing before in your time, 007. Hurting and killing others in the name of revenge?” The words are nonchalant, but Silva’s eyes glint in grim satisfaction as he reminds James of all of his past sins. “You think you are the only one who is entitled?”

        He doesn’t let himself be baited. There’s no point in getting angry when he would only be getting angry at himself. Because Silva is right; he is no saint. But he has never claimed to be one, and whatever he has done in the past, it is no justification for Silva’s actions as well. Nothing can justify what Silva has done, as far as he is concerned. “Is that what you tell yourself when you rape and murder? That there is always someone worse than you, so you can do whatever you want?”

        “At least I don’t lie about it. I don’t blame a higher cause. My goal is revenge, plain and simple. There has never been anything more than that.” Silva stares at him, trying to find the part of him that they have in common, the part that just needs one little push off the edge. The part that James suppresses with the drink and the pills and his thrice-damned loyalty, although sometimes he isn’t sure what (who) he is being loyal to. “And what do you tell yourself, Mr. Bond? What do you tell yourself to help you sleep, after your lovers become collateral damage? That it was your duty, hmm? To place those innocent girls into harm’s way, and to walk away unscathed while they suffer the consequences of your actions? Do you ever feel sorry for what you’ve done, or do you simply feel nothing?”

        “I never feel sorry.” Because guilt isn’t the same thing as regret, but he’s not about to debate semantics with Silva. Without hesitation, he whips around, slamming into the guard’s outstretched hand so that when the man fires, the bullet goes into the other guard instead of its intended target. After that, he doesn’t think at all, just acts on the instincts that have helped keep him alive all of this time, using the guns as his weapons and the human bodies as his shields, and it’s almost a relief to be able to stop thinking and simply act. There’s an adrenaline rush in surviving when those around him do not, an animalistic need to release his pent up rage and frustration, and the very human satisfaction in destroying those who have assisted Silva in the man’s madness.

        Sooner than he likes, the guards are lying on the floor around him, dead or dying or equally irrelevant, and he turns to see that Silva is slowly backing away towards the broken statue. He immediately raises the gun he took off one of the men, and it takes every ounce of his fraying self-control not to shoot the man on the spot. He wants to, and it would be so damn easy. M would rant at him for at least an hour, but Silva would still be dead so she can rant all she bloody well wants. And there are so many reasons to shoot. Some of them are even good reasons.

        Instead, he advances towards the man, growling, “Stop,” before Silva can take another step towards Q. Maybe he should be grateful that Silva took that route, guaranteeing Q’s safety from the bullets by shielding the quartermaster with his own body. He isn’t. The only thing he wants right now is to make sure that Silva _never_ goes anywhere near Q again.

        To his displeasure, Silva does stop. He doesn’t attempt to escape or seek any sort of advantage or give James any excuse to shoot him, although that shit-eating grin on his face sorely tests his very limited resolve. “Oh, very good, James, _very good_. But what is your next step, if you don’t mind me asking? How will you take me to her all on your own, and with the poor boy and the list to consider as well? Or will you be leaving one of those things behind, as your kind is wont to do?”

        He ignores the mockery, giving the man a slight smile that he doesn’t mean. “Who says I’m on my own?”

        Silva looks comically surprised as the sound of helicopters suddenly becomes too much to ignore, turning to look up at them like they are apparitions. Without ever taking his eyes or the gun off of Silva, he reaches his free hand into his pocket to remove the radio that Q had given him what is starting to feel like a lifetime ago. It had finally started pinging quietly when MI6 was in range, although not soon enough. Not nearly.

        “Latest thing from Q-branch,” he says as he holds up the small device for Silva to admire. He doesn’t feel like he’s won this battle. It’s hard to, when Silva is giving him a look so smug that it’s impossible to tell who is the one who has been caught in the trap. But he doesn’t let that stop him as he adds, “It’s called a radio,” right before he slams the butt of the gun into Silva’s temple.

* * *

        James has learned a few things about the quartermaster in the past day. Q has been at MI6 longer than he has. Q has had a difficult past, involving torture and Silva and not always interchangeably. Q has scars, and he will have more of them after today, not all of them visible.

        And now he learns that Q is afraid… no, _terrified_ of flying, and somehow that is more surprising than all of the other things combined. James really doesn’t know how to explain that one, but somehow after everything Q has gone through, it is the thought of flying that sends him careening off the edge.

        The lone medic who had arrived with the other field agents has either seen too much in her time or she is very good at playing poker. She made no comments on Q’s state when she had tended to him, and for his part Q had been placid during the examination. Not exactly cooperative, but not resisting either, which given the circumstances was probably the best they could hope for.

        That had all changed when she told the other agents to get Q onto the helicopter. The screaming panic attack that had ensued had finally broken through even her professionalism, judging from her expression of pure horror. She isn’t the only one who is unprepared; even Q seems surprised by his own reaction.

        Having done his part to retrieve the quartermaster, James doesn’t need to be there. He could, perhaps should, walk away and leave Q in the capable hands of the medic, and dedicate his time to making sure that Silva doesn’t have any more last minute tricks up his sleeves. Even if the man is currently unconscious (and he’s lucky to _just_ be unconscious, considering what James wants to do to him), nothing would be a surprise at this point. But instead of walking away, he finds himself in front of Q, catching hold of hands that weakly try to push everyone away. Q shudders violently at the restraint, before immediately falling limp as all of the fight goes out of him. It’s disturbing, how quickly he gives in even though he clearly doesn’t want to.

        “Q,” James says, earning the attention of wild eyes, frantic and almost frenzied with fear.

        “I can’t,” Q whispers. Despite the terror on his face, his voice is toneless. “ _I can’t_.”

        He could try to appeal to Q’s logic, to explain that they need to get him to a hospital and Silva into MI6 custody as quickly as possible. He could try to point out that a ship would be too slow, take too long, and who knows what would happen in the meantime. He could try to explain that this is the best thing for everyone.

        He says none of these things. From the look in Q’s eyes, logic is the last thing that the quartermaster cares about. He doubts Q minds how much time and extra risks a ship would entail, after three weeks in this hell. And he knows that no one has acted in Q’s best interest in a very long time, and the quartermaster has no reason to think that anyone is about to start now.

        “I’m sorry,” is what he says instead, and then he’s holding Q tightly as the medic comes with her needles and drugs. Q is screaming at (or for?) him in a voice so broken that it barely counts, and he finds that for this, he is sorry, he really is. Maybe he doesn’t know exactly what he’s apologizing for (there are too many things) or whether Q can even hear him, but he lets the younger man scream and sob into his chest (Q doesn’t fight, _even now_ , he doesn’t really fight), holding on until the drugs or the exhaustion or the sheer despair finally force him to fall silent.

* * *

        As soon as they reach London, Q is taken to the hospital. Silva is escorted to a cell. Soon James finds himself standing outside said cell, accompanied by M and Tanner and several armed guards.

        It’s the first time he’s laid eyes on the man since the island. He had stayed with Q during the trip back, watching over the younger man in case he should wake from the drug (and trauma) induced unconsciousness. It hadn’t really been necessary since Q seemed content to sleep the rest of his life away, which is probably why he should have stuck with Silva in case the prisoner decided to wake from the James Bond-induced unconsciousness. But logic be damned, instinct had told him to stay with the quartermaster, and since instinct has served him far better than logic has, he had gone with that. Up to this point, at least.

        Silva doesn’t seem the least bit concerned about how the tables have turned on him. They’ve cleaned him up, although there’s nothing to be done about the dark bruise on his temple. James feels no regret for that. Luckily no one here cares about prisoner’s rights, and there’s nowhere for Silva to go except the deepest, darkest pit MI6 can find for him. It can’t happen soon enough for James’s liking, although death would be a more fitting (and more certain) place for him to go.

        But his opinion matters little, now that the opportunity has passed and M is here. She would probably have something to say about him murdering a helpless prisoner, although Silva isn’t helpless and he doesn’t seem to be acting like a prisoner. Instead, the man is grinning manically and although he doesn’t seem to be looking at them, the man’s attention is obviously on her as he exclaims, “You’re smaller than I remember!”

        “Whereas I barely remember you at all,” M replies coolly.

        Silva doesn’t let her words bother him, as everyone there knows it’s a lie. All of MI6 had revolved around finding that list and then Q, which by extension, meant Silva. “Strange. For me, it feels just like yesterday.” Slowly, he turns to face her, watching her almost greedily as if she is the only thing that exists in the world. “Are you surprised?”

        “Not particularly. But then you always were a slippery one.” It is not a compliment, although somewhat ironic because such survival instincts were usually valued in the field. Less so when used against the agency, he supposes.

        Silva lets out another soft, dangerous ( _knowing_ ) laugh. “Maybe that’s why you liked me so much.”

        He wonders if it should bother him that Silva apparently thinks like him, but that would probably be reading too much into it. Once you were in the field long enough, everyone started to look at the world in the same way. It was inevitable, when faced with reality and all of the things people were capable of. The question, really, was how one dealt with it: drink, pills, revenge, loyalty, or death. Sometimes all of them at once; they’re all just a few steps away from being Silva in the end. It’s just that most people have the decency to die before that point.

        But what he thinks is irrelevant. Whatever is going on, it’s between M and Silva, even if the consequences go far beyond the two.

        “You flatter yourself.”

        Silva sighs dramatically, like she has wounded him. If she has, he is a masochist because there’s still that pleased smile on his face. “Oof. No remorse.” Another long sigh, and James nearly wants to roll his eyes at the theatrics, even though he knows it is just a cover for how dangerous the man truly is. “Just as I had imagined.”

        M shifts slightly, but her face still shows nothing, including the remorse that Silva seems so keen on demanding from everyone. “Regret is unprofessional.”

        Silva leans back on the stool that serves as his seat, laughing as he turns to face James. “Regret is unprofessional,” he repeats, and James can’t tell who he is addressing. But then he is turning back to M, and his face is ever so calm as he says, “They kept me for five months in a room with no air. They tortured me. And I protected your secrets. I protected _you_. But they made me suffer. And _suffer_.” His words drop to a whisper, but they echo in the room. He doesn’t even sound angry, more sad and resigned as he remembers what was done to him. It’s an expression James has seen most recently on the quartermaster’s face, but there isn’t time to consider that similarity as Silva repeats once more, “And suffer. Until I realized… it was you who betrayed me. _You_ betrayed me.”

        Silva looks almost lost in the memories. James doesn’t want to know what he is remembering, and still M says nothing. She has no reason to let him continue his story; it could be nothing more than icy courtesy. But none of that matters as Silva picks up where he left off, a lost look on his face. “So I had only one thing left. My cyanide capsule in my back left molar. You remember, right?”

        There’s nothing to remember; the cyanide capsules are still standard issue, and of course Silva will know that already. M doesn’t point that out, of course, but James doubts Silva expected any response because he just continues, “So I broke the tooth and bit into the capsule. And it… it _burned_ all my insides. But I didn’t die.”

        The man smiles then, a mad smile tinged with the despair of someone who had been forced to live when he did not wish to. Where living was a curse rather than a blessing. “Life clung to me,” he says almost in wonder, before his voice turns cold again. “Like a disease.”

        His laugh echoes through the room, chilling in its undisguised insanity. Silva shifts forward so that he is sitting on the edge of the stool, as close to M as he can get without simply kneeling before her, with only glass separating the two. “And then… I understood why I had survived. I needed to look in your eyes one last time.”

        And still, M shows him nothing. She hasn’t moved throughout any of Silva’s monologue, and she didn’t move when Silva had come towards her. Despite the fact that the cell is raised so that they all have to look up at Silva, despite what she has done to him, she is still able to look down at the agent who she had once discarded. “Well, I hope it was worth it.”

        Silva just tilts his head ever so slightly, as if in agreement. But they all know it isn’t that.

        “Mr. Silva.” This time it is M’s turn to pause to let the words sink in. “You’re going to be transferred to Belmarsh Prison where you’ll be remanded in custody until the Crown Prosecution Service deem you fit to stand trial for-”

        The man abruptly stands, a movement that should be a threat. But neither James nor Tanner nor any of the guards make a move for their weapons because the words that follow are almost a plea, and James wonders what it is about the man that after everything he has done, he can still make himself out to be the victim. “Say my name. Say it. My _real_ name. I know you remember it.”

        M doesn’t even blink, let alone give him the satisfaction he asks for. “Your name is on the memorial wall of the very building you attacked. I will have it struck off. Soon your past will be as nonexistent as our future. I will never see you again.”

        Without another word, she turns to leave. He starts to follow her as well, as does Tanner, but right as she reaches the door Silva calls out, “Do they know? The families of the agents you sent with him. Do they know that you were sending them to their deaths?”

        James looks sharply at M, who has frozen. But there’s a tightness in her eyes that he understands all too well, and then a hand suddenly slams into the glass. He and Tanner both turn to see that Silva is pressed right up to the barrier, his mouth twisted in hate, but M still will not acknowledge him.

        “Does _he_ know?” Silva asks, in that low, dangerous whisper. “Does he know that there were no bureaucrats, no meeting, no reason for him to leave this place of safety except that you required it? Does he know that you were the one who sent him there, expecting, _hoping_ I would be there to pick him up? That you wanted to draw me out, or perhaps you even meant for me to take him so that you could follow me to my hideout, to retrieve that list? Does he know that you gave him to me, so beautifully gift-wrapped, to do with as I pleased, just for the chance that you would find me? I warned him that you would betray him, as you did to me and everyone who is stupid enough to put their trust in you, but even I did not think it would be this soon, this way. After all of this time, mother, after all of the good work I have seen you do, even I did not think you could be so cruel.”

        And then Silva is sitting back down, as if he has not said anything at all. There is no cruel laughter in his words, no false smile on his face. Silva’s face is as blank as M’s, and just as harsh in its emptiness. Because with words like that, there is no need for anything else, and Silva looks straight at James because M still cannot face him as he asks one final question.

        “What would he say, if he knew that you intended for this to happen all along?”

* * *

        M moves quickly, in both her pace and her words as she snaps out orders. “Let me know what you recover from his computer. Has he transmitted the lists? If so, to whom? I want this resolved.”

        “Understood,” he hears Tanner say, but for the most part he cannot focus on what either of them are saying. M’s orders seem to go in one ear and out the other, but that’s fine because none of them are directed at him anyway. As for Tanner, he is nodding and saying all of the right things, but James can’t help but notice that he looks somewhat dazed, like someone has sucker punched him.

        James seriously doubts it’s the rapid fire orders causing that expression.

        If M notices, which she surely must, she doesn’t comment on it. To do would require acknowledging what just happened in that room, and considering how she still hasn’t looked back once, that seems a lot to expect. He isn’t sure how she does it; even after all of this time and everything he has seen and done, a part of him is still in that cell with Silva, hearing those words over and over again.

        _What would he say, if he knew that you intended for this to happen all along?_

        Silva is good at what he does, subtly undermining M’s authority. Tanner and James are two people who know what M is like, and have no reason to expect anything more from her. But he can tell that Tanner is a little shaken by what had gone on in that room, and he would be lying if he pretended to be above that.

        _Does he know that you gave him to me?_

        Once again, he has to wonder why it matters so much. Even if it was true, even if it was possible… did he really expect otherwise from M? When it came to balancing the individual versus the masses, isn’t that what she was supposed to do? He himself had dealt with the consequences of that delicate balancing act, and Q was the product of such a tradeoff. He had seen, caused, or enabled so much death in the name of the greater good, so why were Silva’s words affecting him so much?

        Because he can still see Q. He’d had an image of Q (upstart, overconfident, skilled, _interesting_ ), and in three weeks, Silva had destroyed that. He doesn’t know exactly what Silva had done to the quartermaster, but he doesn’t need to. He had seen the results, and he knows that whatever Silva had done was brutally effective. Because when he thinks of Q, he doesn’t think of their meeting at the National Gallery. He thinks of the island, and Q, who was incapable of looking at them until forced to do so by Silva. Q, who didn’t seem to care when Sévérine had died, and cared even less when it was his turn. Q, who had screamed and cried into James’s chest, and yet even that act seemed almost perfunctory, like the younger man knew it wouldn’t make a difference anyway. Because he had probably spent quite some time fighting, only to have Silva break down his defenses over and over again, cementing the fact that nothing Q did would ever stop him.

        That had been the look in Q’s eyes, the look of someone who had been defeated so many times that he had completely given up. It was a look that could never be explained in a medical report or a post-mission briefing because it couldn’t really be explained in words. It was something that had to be seen to truly be understood, and James had seen it all too closely. Silva had made Q look that way, and if M had orchestrated that in any way….

        “You have questions.”

        Her words make him stop short, and it’s a good thing they do or he might have walked straight into her after she came to a sudden stop. Tanner, a couple steps ahead, takes a few steps more before he comprehends what is happening, and he turns to look at them with a politely puzzled expression. But he knows better than to say anything, especially when M’s words are not directed towards him.

        James knows M is addressing him. It’s not a question because she knows the answer to that, although to be precise he only has the one. He doesn’t ask it. They both know that she wouldn’t answer it even if he did, and what could she say even if she did answer? He isn’t sure why she asks, unless….

        He can’t say it. Instead, he stares at the back of M’s head because she still will not look at him, and the silence stretches from uncomfortable to deafening.

        “Ma’am.” Tanner says it so quietly that it’s obvious he doesn’t want to get involved in this mess. The man always did have good survival instincts. James wonders (unfairly, perhaps) how involved Tanner would have been, but he discards that thought immediately. Even now, he can tell the difference between guilt and shock. “We should go now. Board of Inquiry starts in thirty minutes.”

        M turns slightly to look at Tanner. There’s no telling what her expression is; Tanner isn’t giving anything away, which is why he is her Chief of Staff.

        “We do what we have to do.”

        He knows he’s staring openly, but he doesn’t care. He had expected her to walk away (she’s good at that). He certainly hadn’t expected her to say anything, and the words are said so quietly that it would have been easy to miss them. But he’s not in the business of missing things, especially when it comes to this sort of thing.

        Unlike Silva’s words, which communicate far less than what he means, M’s words convey precisely what she says. Nothing more, nothing less. The problem is that her words here convey nothing at all; they’re the unspoken mantra of intelligence agencies everywhere. Does she mean it as a reminder of the business they’re in? An admonishment of sorts, perhaps? But if that is all it is, then why won’t she face him?

        He doesn’t get the chance to ask because then she is moving again at that brisk pace, as if nothing has happened. And still she doesn’t turn back as she instructs briskly, “I want to know what’s on that computer, 007.”

        He has nothing to say to her retreating back.

* * *

        Things get very confusing after that.

        It starts with R plugging various cords into Silva’s computer. It ends with James and M driving to Scotland in his beloved Aston Martin, a position he had not expected himself to be in twenty-four hours earlier. Somewhere along the way, there was an escape, a chase through the London Underground, a brazen attack on M during the public inquiry, and a _bloody train_. Several trains, actually, but the one he is referring specifically to is the one Silva had nearly crushed him with, but James had always had a difficult relationship with trains, even before he had been shot off one. There’s a reason why he prefers driving his own car.

        He also prefers it when there isn’t someone in the passenger seat judging his every move, but despite the less than auspicious start to their trip (the Aston Martin is _not_ uncomfortable), M had fallen quiet once they had got on the A9. The silence is tense, and while he’s used to that with M, the reasons for the tenseness go far beyond her usual attempts to control him. A bullet, a quartermaster, a traitor, and so many questions. The silence is suffocating, and the drive is not nearly enough to distract him from everything that has happened in the past few days. Without something to distract him, all he can think of is Sévérine’s nails scraping against where the bullet had entered, Silva’s light touch across the scarring, and Q’s desperate sobs into his chest.

        Q. It’s sadly easy, at times, to forget about the quartermaster when Silva is so focused on M, which in turn forces him to focus on M as well. But although Q is safe in a hospital, protected by armed guards and Silva moving onto the next phase of his plans, Q is never far from the forefront of his thoughts, and neither are Silva’s words ( _does he know that you gave him to me?_ ). He glances over at M, who immediately seems to know he is watching her and shifts slightly. “Where are we going?”

        He raises an eyebrow, not sure why she is asking when it seems obvious enough already. “Back in time.” He doesn’t usually try to be this melodramatic, but apparently Silva has affected him in more ways than one.

        When she purses his lips in obvious disapproval, he gets ready to explain his strategy – because there _is_ one, even if it might not be the most well thought-out one, but maybe it’s better not to overthink things when Silva has proven himself annoyingly competent at predicting their every move – but then M says, “I met Mr. Coulter when I was overseeing the Transition. He was young, but already very good at what he did. He had potential, so I asked him to work for us and he accepted.”

        It takes him a moment to realize that M is talking about Q, not Silva, but she doesn’t give him a chance to process that information as she continues, “I hadn’t meant to trade for him. Silva was the one who found him, actually, so I asked for him when negotiating with the Chinese. I thought it was the least I could do, given what I was about to do to him. I must admit, I wasn’t sure Mr. Coulter would be of any use. Older and more experienced people than he had broken in the conditions we found him in.”

        _They tortured him before, you know_ , Silva reminds him. It’s so strange, to have Q’s past being told to him like this, in bits and pieces by two persons who could not be more dissimilar. Silva had told him those things to prove his own superiority, that he knew such intimate details about Q that M had not deemed James worthy of knowing. As for M, he doesn’t know why she is telling him these things; such information might have useful before the mission, but now that Q has already been retrieved, this information is superfluous at best.

        And it isn’t that he doesn’t want to know more about Q, it’s just that… well, he knows what it’s like to have a past. To tell someone that past, without permission or at least some purpose, seems an unnecessary breach of the little privacy that remains in this line of work. If Q wanted him to know, that would be a different story, but he of all people knows that Q is in no position to be making decisions about this sort of thing. Hasn’t Q already lost enough of himself, without having his past dragged out into the open like this? For no apparent reason?

        But he doesn’t stop her because even with that in mind, he knows M isn’t one for wasting words. If she’s telling him these things, it’s for a reason, although he doesn’t know what it could possibly be.

        “He was so cynical, when I met him. The potential to be brilliant, but untrusting. That was understandable though.” M sighs softly, closing her eyes at the memory. Q must have been something, for her to remember that conversation so well. How many similar conversations had she had over the years? More than she could be expected to remember, but this one had apparently stood out. James wonders how that meeting had gone; if their own initial conversation was any indication, it had probably been quite entertaining. “So I made him a promise. I promised that we would never allow him to remain in the hands of any hostile entity. I never promised anything like that before, since we know better than to make promises that we cannot keep, but for him, I made an exception. I’m not sure he believed that promise, but I made it anyway.

        “Of course, after that, he had to be put on probation. But the doctors cleared him because we wanted to put his skills to work. Major Boothroyd vouched for him too, and did what he could for Mr. Coulter. He also kept an eye on him. Not that we ever thought he would turn on us, but just in case.”

        It’s a good thing the A9 is largely empty because it is very, very difficult to keep enough of his attention on the road to not cause an accident. Is this why she is telling him these things? To warn him that Q has – has _always_ had – the potential to be the next Silva? Intelligent, skilled, and capable of destruction in all the wrong ways? Even now, after everything he has been through… but perhaps that was the point. If Q ever learned of the possibility of M’s complicity, if he even heard what Silva had to say….

        _Does he know?_

        James can’t say that Q would never do that kind of thing because he doesn’t know Q. All he has is a five-minute conversation, the aftermath of Silva’s twisted games, and snippets of a past he isn’t sure he should be privy to in the first place. Besides, if M had thought that Q was capable of such a thing, why would she promote him to quartermaster? Why would she have asked for retrieval rather than a kill? Why-

        “I made him that promise not because I thought I could keep that promise, but because I wanted to.”

        This stops all of his thoughts, although his hands tighten on the wheel.

        “I had hoped to spare him of this. A foolish notion, I know, when in this line of work, none of us are ever safe. But I had hoped…” her voice trails off and he is reminded, quite suddenly, why he is doing any of this. M has her faults, and Silva is right that she would give up any of them if required. He knows that personally, and has the scars to prove it.

        But she never does it without reason. She never does it except as a last resort, after running through every other option. And if she can save them, she will. Because he might have the scars, but he’s also still here, and that is because of her. She has protected him even when she did not need to or knew that he would not forgive her for it. She has kept him alive, if not necessarily whole.

        As for Q, it doesn’t answer the question of whether she did what Silva said she did. The possibility is all too real; if it wasn’t, Silva’s words wouldn’t have had the impact that they did. But if she did, she isn’t hiding it. He knows that if he was to ask, she would tell him. She’s probably waiting for him to ask.

        He doesn’t.

        She looks at him then, really looks at him for the first time since they had met outside of Silva’s cell. It’s hard to read her expression, especially when he’s trying to keep his eyes on the road, but there’s so much in it as she says quietly, “He’s stronger than he looks, Bond.”

        What is underlying that is clear. She doesn’t need to say anything more, and there’s only one thing he needs to say.

        “Yes, ma’am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have to be honest, I’ve been waiting to write that scene between M and Silva for a very long time (except that it didn’t end up changing very much from the original draft, so I guess there wasn’t actually much writing when I finally got to it). Which probably says a lot about my twisted sense of priorities. As for the end, I wasn’t really expecting the last conversation to go in the direction it did, but Silva isn’t the only one who likes to be contrary.
> 
> We’re looking at another break next week, unfortunately. The hope is that in doing so, I will get the last chapters written and posted without any more delays. Thank you all so much for your patience; you’ve been really kind about my horrific slowness, and I really appreciate it.


	10. Q

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _He doesn’t eat. He barely sleeps. His bed, untouched for months, remains so because it’s too big and there’s too much room for his nightmares to crawl in. Silva doesn’t even have the decency to wait for his nightmares; at any moment, he can feel the man’s presence around him, and it’s enough to send him into a panic attack that leaves him curled in the corner of whatever room he happens to be in, shaking until his strength runs out. A disproportionate amount of the time, he wakes up without any memory of how he ended up there in the first place._

_Silva is gentle, as he pushes Q down. It’s quite a difference from the way the man had practically flung him onto the bed, in a gesture so lazy that it is simply contemptuous. He isn’t sure which he prefers; Silva’s disdain, while cruel, is to be expected, whereas kindness just makes a mockery of everything that has happened and will continue to happen._

_It makes him sick, how all he can do is tremble. There’s a part of him that wants to fight back, to not give in to Silva’s whims so easily. It’s quickly beaten back by everything else, for what is the point when he has already lost? He will only end up getting hurt worse than he otherwise would be, although considering how quickly he is losing everything already, that may well be impossible (and almost certainly unbearable)._

_He can hear himself begging (no, please, not again, not already, please, please,_ please _), but he doesn’t know if it’s in his head or if he’s actually saying the words out loud. It matters not because it is quickly drowned out by Silva making calming, soothing sounds, like he is a small child who is just being silly. But he is not a child and he is not silly and there’s one hand running through his hair and the other moving down and it’s too soon, too soon since the last time and he_ doesn’t want this _, but since when has Silva ever cared about what he wanted? If Silva cared at all about what he wanted, he wouldn’t be here. He would be safe at MI6 or in his own flat or-_

        Q wakes up, choking on a scream. He stares wildly about him, looking for the crack in the ceiling or the silk sheets or Silva smiling down at him, but all he finds is a room that he barely recognizes despite having lived in it for a decade. Still, it’s not the room he was expecting (dreading) to wake up in, so it should be easy to calm himself by taking in his surroundings and reminding himself that he isn’t there anymore, that he’s _safe_ now, but that is a joke. If Silva has proven anything, it’s that he will never be safe again. No matter where he goes or what he does, Silva can and will find him. Even in death, Silva is always with him because he cannot forget what happened. He cannot escape the feeling that this is just a temporary reprieve and that when he least expects it, he’ll be back in that room with Silva pressing down on him as he screams and screams and-

        It suddenly occurs to him that those screams aren’t just his memories.

        He immediately clamps his mouth shut, although he knows he is now crying. He shudders, waiting for Silva to appear at his side to brush away the tears and to hold him down until the hysteria loses out to exhaustion (defeat). At that point, Silva would embrace him, a hand running through his hair in an almost consoling gesture as he whimpers pathetically. Even though he knows that this act will quickly be followed by the very reasons for that hysteria, in his desperation he would let himself pretend that this was a dream, that it wasn’t actually happening, that he was okay and that everything would turn out fine and-

        He suddenly feels dizzy as he realizes that he isn’t just expecting the man’s sick parody of comfort, but that he _needs_ it. The fear is quickly replaced by self-loathing so strong that it makes him want to pass out, if only so that he wouldn’t have to face that realization. Because he had hated it, he really had, but now that no one is offering him even false comfort, he just feels exhausted and disgusted and _terrified_ because what has become of him that he looks for someone, even _Silva_ , when he is at this point?

        He wants someone there, and he hates himself so much for it that it makes him want someone _even more_. Someone who will console him even though he knows that it is not sincere and does not amount to anything. Because it was something he had come to depend on, those small moments where he could close his eyes and think of something better, but there’s no one here to distract him now.

        Still, at least it means that there is no one to watch as he pulls his legs close and buries his head, trying to appear as small as possible even though it just makes him look vulnerable. The irony is lost on him as he starts to sob in earnest, a gasping and wretched sound that used to make Silva smile. But it is all he can do as he waits in vain for someone to help him put the pieces back together, even though he knows it is a lost cause.

        (He’s left too many pieces behind on that island to ever be made whole again.)

* * *

        The hospital stay hadn’t been long, although it had felt like a lifetime at the time (that’s not saying much; every day feels like a lifetime now). Despite the weeks of constant abuse, his physical injuries weren’t actually that grave. The only cause for concern had been the broken fingers, but even those had not raised too many concerns since Silva had made sure to set them properly (a perfect host, that one, when he wasn’t engaging in rape and murder). It seemed the man was clean too; Q didn’t appear to have any diseases, although that hadn’t stopped them from putting him on a cocktail of drugs that he only accepted because he didn’t have the energy to fight it. Or care.

        The mental wounds were and remain a far different story. He still suspects that they discharged him early because his screaming in the middle of the night had the nasty effect of waking up the other patients. He can’t blame them for that, although it doesn’t stop him from resenting them when they put him in the tender, loving care of the psych department. The psychiatrists, of course, immediately recommend that he be put on indefinite leave without bothering to ask how he feels.

        (Not that he would have bothered telling them.)

        After that, he flatly refuses to go back to MI6, contenting himself with watching (but not really) bad television with the volume on max during his waking hours, and screaming some more during the night. Luckily he had soundproofed his flat a few years back, or the neighbors might have something to say about both those things.

        (He is stupidly glad Ariel is dead. The cat would have hated all of this noise.)

        His thoughts are scattered, and more often than not he finds himself staring at the door, waiting for Silva to come in. He spends hours trying to come up with ways to appeal to the man’s better nature, before remembering that there is no better nature to appeal to. Then he works himself up into a frenzy as he imagines what will happen when that door opens, and how incapable he will be of coping with whatever fresh hells Silva can come up with.

        Deep down, of course, he knows that Silva is dead. He vaguely remembers Bond showing up in the hospital room, looking impeccable if tired, but to be honest he still isn’t sure if that was a hallucination or not. Tanner had confirmed it later, when updating him on MI6’s status without providing any useful details, but Q had been too busy wondering why the Chief of Staff wouldn’t meet his eyes (had he really looked that pathetic, like he might shatter if eye contact was made?) to be offended by the lack of actual information. In any case, the confirmation of Silva’s death is all he really needs, except it doesn’t seem to have changed anything. Because deeper still is the all-encompassing fear, and no amount of logic can dispel it. Silva might be dead, but the man lives on in his nightmares, and those are constant and inescapable.

        He doesn’t eat. He barely sleeps. His bed, untouched for months, remains so because it’s too big and there’s too much room for his nightmares to crawl in. Silva doesn’t even have the decency to wait for his nightmares; at any moment, he can feel the man’s presence around him, and it’s enough to send him into a panic attack that leaves him curled in the corner of whatever room he happens to be in, shaking until his strength runs out. A disproportionate amount of the time, he wakes up without any memory of how he ended up there in the first place.

        (So really, it’s the same as being on the island, except now it’s a cage of his own making and there’s no one there to force feed him.)

* * *

        This changes, somewhat, when Moneypenny shows up. She’s dressed impeccably, as usual, and Q considers calling the police on her. He doesn’t because she will either get them all demoted with a single phone call or beat them off with a stiletto, and in any case he would be lying if he claimed he hadn’t been expecting her visit. They have an understanding, ever since she shot Bond and he gave her a potted plant, which she had promptly let wither and die. _‘Not because I didn’t appreciate it_ ,’ she had emphasized over the lunch she took him to by way of apology. _‘I’m just rubbish at taking care of plants.’_

        People, on the other hand, turn out to be a different story entirely.

        “Shouldn’t you be at Mallory’s side right now?” he asks. He really wants to tell her to leave him alone, but she would just ignore it because they both know he isn’t sure if he means it.

        “It’s Saturday,” she replies. “And it’s M now. Besides, someone needs to make sure you’re coping.”

        He blinks at her. The appropriate response is probably to thank her or to at least let her in, but he’s frozen in place because there’s still that part of him that wants to slam the door in her face and hide in the bathroom. He isn’t sure why, but there are a lot of things he doesn’t understand so he doesn’t dwell on it.

        He flinches when she places a hand gently on his arm. “Can I come in?”

        If he says no, she would probably leave, but he’s torn because he is terrified by the prospect of being alone (again). It’s so confusing, and after a long moment in which she watches him and he looks everywhere except at her, he nods and steps back.

        To his immense relief, she doesn’t ask him how he’s doing (he wouldn’t be able to answer her honestly anyway) or comment on the state of his flat. She keeps a safe distance yet he still feels ready to jump out of his own skin at any wrong movement. Or just out the window. He had considered it a few times, although never that seriously. That is a thought he keeps to himself; he doesn’t need psych hounding him any more than they already are (the thirty-seven voicemails are more than enough).

        Moneypenny offers him more information than Tanner had, although not by much. He occasionally remembers to nod and sometimes even answers back, but for the most part he just lets her words wash over him. She doesn’t expect anything more from him, but keeps chatting away as if knowing that the sound is enough to distract him from his demons.

        She makes him a light broth and some toast, and doesn’t say anything when he ends up on his knees in front of the toilet, throwing the majority of it up. But she holds his hair back and wipes his face with a warm towel, and for a few minutes he feels almost normal (human) again. It doesn’t last long because she reminds him of Sévérine, and that in turn reminds him of Silva and the island and suddenly he’s crumpled on the floor, shaking uncontrollably.

        Eventually Moneypenny manages to coax him back onto the sofa (the armchair, the one that used to be his favorite until Silva had occupied it back when the man had first introduced himself, will be burned the first chance he gets), where he spends the rest of the night. She doesn’t make any further conversation, just watches silently as he stares blankly at the television, which is on some show he had meant to watch way back when but had never found the time to do so. He knows he’s not going to remember any of it.

        He still doesn’t sleep, but the night is a little more bearable. It’s something, he supposes. (Just not very much.)

* * *

        Moneypenny can’t stay forever, of course, seeing how she is M’s secretary and has more important things to do than play nanny to Q’s tortured psyche. So it’s not surprising when she leaves, although her replacement is certainly unexpected.

        Unlike Moneypenny, who Q knows he can’t really ignore, Q does seriously consider not letting 007 in. Although he tells himself that he shouldn’t feel ashamed, the fact is that Bond has seen him at his worst. This means that Bond has seen more of him than he has allowed any other person to, with the exception of Silva (who didn’t really ask for his permission anyway, but just takes and takes and _takes_ ).

        But if there’s one thing he remembers from Bond’s file, it’s that the man is stubborn. If he doesn’t let the agent in, Bond will probably continue standing out there until the neighbors start asking awkward questions. Considering how the neighbors are already convinced that he is eccentric (subtext: suspicious), given his long hours and even longer recent absence, it’s trouble he doesn’t need and the only reason why he opens the door.

         Even though Bond has already seen him naked, covered in bruises and blood, and in complete loss of his senses (one of these three things is still in play), his skin crawls as Bond looks him over. It’s almost worse than the way Silva used to look at ( _through_ ) him, and he braces himself for Bond to say something sympathetic. He would almost prefer if Bond was an arse, rather than patronizing, but the agent does neither. Instead, Bond just watches him silently until he finally says, as calmly as he can, “Bond.”

        “Q.” It takes everything in him not to flinch back. It’s just a letter, and there aren’t even any bad ( _Silva_ ) memories associated with it, but it’s such a goddamn joke that it almost physically hurts. The first time Bond had called him that to his face, he had actually thought that the man was close to respecting him. Now the only thing he inspires is pity, and he braces himself for the sympathy that will no doubt be kindly meant but poorly received.

        Instead, Bond just looks past Q into his flat and says, “I thought it was MI6 policy to sell the place.”

        He stares. It takes him a moment to understand what Bond is saying, before he laughs harshly. “Only if they think you’re dead. In my case, they paid my rent and stocked my fridge.” He keeps to himself the fact that they had taken his knives too, a move that was both impractical (granted, he never used them for cooking, subsisting on the microwave and take-out) and futile (like he would need them if he really wanted to harm himself). It was probably meant as a warning (the MI6 equivalent of a friendly suggestion) but Q doesn’t particularly care what exactly. If MI6 was trying to tell him something, they could bloody well send an e-mail because he doesn’t have the energy to try and interpret subtleties.

        Bond glances over at him again, probably counting ribs. By the end of Moneypenny’s stay, he could keep some food down, but even she couldn’t cure the weeks of minimal solid food. Not that Silva had ever left him lacking on that end (starvation wasn’t as entertaining, he supposes), but he had lost interest in eating about two days in. Yet once again, instead of commenting on his pathetic appearance, Bond just continues to watch him. He doesn’t ask to come in, and Q doesn’t invite him inside. They’re at some sort of impasse, neither knowing what to do or to voice what they really want, although in Q’s case he just doesn’t know what the hell he wants. For a long time he’s wanted things, only to be denied, so he stopped. It was easier to be numb than to be constantly disappointed.

        “It was probably Tanner.” When Q continues to stare in utter incomprehension, Bond elaborates, “Who stocked your fridge. He can be thoughtful like that. Likes to anticipate needs, that one.”

        Tanner was the one who had accompanied him back when he had been discharged. He had thought it strange that Tanner was bothering, since the man surely had better things to do, such as dealing with the fallout from M’s death. He winces slightly at that. M. He hasn’t quite processed that one, given how M had been a constant (if distant) part of his life for so long, just as he hasn’t accepted that Silva is-

        No. _No_ , he has to stop thinking about that man. Silva is dead; Bond killed him, although that hadn’t saved M, but he was still dead and he wasn’t coming back and-

        “A knife to the back,” Bond says quietly, and to his horror he realizes he had probably said some of that out loud. “I’m afraid I can’t show you the body as MI6 would have disposed of it by now, but I personally ensured his death.”

        He wonders what to say to that. Maybe he should thank 007, but that seems morbid. Besides, the confirmation of Silva’s death does nothing for his mind, which is still desperately trying to prepare itself for the man’s return by blocking everything out. It makes it difficult to come up with some appropriate response (or even an inappropriate one), but Bond doesn’t seem offended by his silence. Or his continued staring, as if he’s still trying to make himself believe that Bond is actually there.

        “I remember,” he finally replies. Remembering isn’t the same as accepting, so at least it’s not a lie. “You came to visit me in the hospital.”

        It’s not supposed to be a question, but it comes out as one because he really isn’t sure if he dreamt that or not. It looks like his breakdown hasn’t led to hallucinations quite just yet though, as Bond nods. “I thought you deserved to know.”

        He shrugs, the movement so slight it probably would have missed by everyone except Bond.

        “It doesn’t change anything, does it?” Bond asks.

        He responds before he can even fully comprehend what the man is saying, “No.”

        There’s a look on 007’s face; it’s not condescending, but oddly understanding, and it just makes him feel worse. But he tries to hold himself together for just a little longer, puzzling out what he should be doing right now.

        “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

        Q is pretty sure he hadn’t actually said anything out loud, but there’s a reason why 007 is considered one of the best, even if he is a bit antiquated at times. Not that Q is one to talk since obviously Bond is far more competent than he is. He doesn’t voice that little gem of a thought, instead asking, “What if I don’t know what I want?”

        (He’s tired of being disappointed.)

        “Start with the small things,” Bond suggests, almost kindly. The man seems almost human, and Q is really starting to wonder if he should be rethinking the hallucinating bit. From what he has read of the man’s file, this is not typical James Bond Behavior. It seems the opposite of the emotionally distant, super robot agent that the file makes him out to be. Yet the suggestion seems sound even to his frazzled mind, which may speak volumes about his obvious lack of common sense.

        The small things? For a moment, he wonders where he should start with that. Aren’t there a lot of things that he wants? Except try as he might, he can’t think of any; the obvious ones – for Silva to stop haunting him, for his mind to stop obsessing over things he cannot change, for a day where he wakes up feeling _normal_ again – are tossed aside as unrealistic and unattainable. So what is left besides that?

        Well, he doesn’t want to be standing here anymore, that he is fairly sure about. It’s not quite what 007 is suggesting, but suddenly he is tired and he doesn’t want to be having this conversation where any one of his neighbors can hear, if they should appear (he has enough problems without a neighborhood campaign to get him evicted). So without a word and without bothering to ask if Bond wants to come in, he turns and heads back for the sofa, in front of which the television is still blasting. Despite the noise, he can hear Bond close the door, and wordlessly the agent moves to sit down in-

        “Not there,” he says, his voice tiny. He really needs to get rid of that armchair; it’s just another reminder of the life he once had (the person he once was) before Silva had entered into it, destroying what he had carefully constructed after nearly losing himself once before. It’s terribly unfair, how the man has made even the small pleasures of his (past) life unbearable to look at.

        To his credit, Bond doesn’t ask. Q in turn doesn’t explain, but when he wakes up from his latest bout of exhaustion-induced unconsciousness, the armchair is gone (and suddenly he can breathe a little easier).

* * *

        Bond would not be Q’s first choice for playing caretaker, and he is far from the ideal house guest even under the best of circumstances (he cannot be trusted in the kitchen, he abuses the hot water, and he is a snob about what they watch). As a result, Q spends an inordinate amount of time wondering why Moneypenny sent the agent in her stead. He spends an even more obscene amount of time wondering why the hell Bond _accepted_ because surely the man has better things to do. From what he knows of the man, Bond would seem to prefer running around shooting people and devastating Q-branch’s budget, both sources of endless frustration. Not that either is currently his problem, except that Bond isn’t doing either. Instead, he’s sitting in Q’s flat, watching Q watch bad television that neither seem to really pay attention to (unless it involves explosions. Bond really doesn’t like programs that involve explosions). So it turns out that Bond is still his problem, although he supposes that it’s really the other way around given who is the more mentally unstable of the two.

        More than once, he considers telling Bond to leave. He doesn’t. The puzzle of why the agent is here is a neat distraction from his usual thoughts (Silva, Silva, _Silva_ ). He doubts Bond is being asked to play bodyguard; there doesn’t seem to be any danger (beyond the self-inflicted), and while he in theory retains the title of quartermaster, in practice he isn’t near important enough to warrant this level of protection. Moneypenny could be blackmailing Bond into being here, but that seems odd since Moneypenny was the one who shot him so it would seem that she owes him the favor, not the other way around.

        Then there’s the possibility that Bond is here of his own volition, and he isn’t sure how he feels about that. Bond doesn’t seem the kind to play caretaker, yet here he is. He could just ask, of course, but he doesn’t think Bond would be honest (Q doesn’t think he’ll lie, but one doesn’t have to lie to not be honest). Even if the agent is truthful, the answer would probably just make him more confused, so it’s easier to keep his peace. There’s still that nagging sense that Bond shouldn’t be here, especially after what the agent has seen, but even more pressing is the need to not be alone.

        In the back of his head, he knows it’s dangerous to become dependent on someone like 007. But while there are only a few things in this world that are worse than depending on someone like James Bond, it just so happens that one of those things is the nightmares. So as much as he knows that this is not a path he wants to go down, he’s so desperate that he’s willing to take it.

        Unfortunately, it turns out that even 007 is no match for his demons. Q doesn’t remember falling asleep, but soon he is waking up to Silva fucking him (just a dream, _just a dream_ , but why does it still feel so _real_ ), and he ends up vomiting on Bond’s perfectly tailored suit. It’s humiliating. He doesn’t know why he cares about that after what Bond has already seen, but he does and Bond’s patience only makes him feel worse.

        “It’s fine,” Bond says for the seventeenth time.

        “It’s really not,” he mutters. His mouth feels disgusting, but he’s clinging onto Bond too tightly for the man to get him some water to wash the taste out. He knows he should let go, should let Bond leave so that he doesn’t have to deal with the mess that used to be his quartermaster, but now that he’s holding on he can’t find it in himself to release him.

        “It’s fine,” Bond repeats for the eighteenth time, and he shakes his head silently. If only he could believe Bond, but even after all of this time he just can’t. He used to be scared that it would never end, but now he’s just scared that he will never _accept_ that it has ended. Tanner, Moneypenny, Bond… they’re not lying to him, he knows they’re not, but the voice of reason has nothing on the cloying, desperate fears that were all he had known for so long.

        Except it wasn’t really that long, was it? It could have been so much worse. It could have been more _permanent_ , with severed limbs or death or… it just could have been much worse than three broken fingers and the inability to breathe without wanting to scream. Because the former is healing and the latter is just in his head ( _just a dream_ ), and he knows that, really he does, but it doesn’t _feel_ that way. Not when he’s like this.

        So even though he is disgusted by his behavior and shamed by his weakness, he just tightens his grip, whispering his apologies. He can’t stop, especially when Bond won’t accept them, and he wonders desperately if he will ever be fine again.

        ( _That’s not the right question_ , Silva lectures him from over Bond’s shoulder. _Were you ever alright to begin with?_ )

* * *

        He can’t avoid psych forever, of course. The number of voicemails on his cell have multiplied exponentially, and the threats have become correspondingly more serious. And even though a part of him revels in the possibility of telling the bastards to piss off because he doesn’t care about his job (anything), that would be a lie. Being the quartermaster might be the only thing he has left, and he will be damned if he lets Silva take that away from him as well. Besides, if distractions had worked the first time around, who is to say they wouldn’t work this time?

        (He doesn’t really believe that.)

        It is strange, coming back to MI6, even if he’s not going back to do his job. A lot has changed, although some of the changes are a return to normalcy, such as the move back to the MI6 building and modern wiring. Other changes are significantly less familiar. Of course he had known that Olivia Mansfield was gone, having been informed of it by Tanner (and presumably Bond too, but his memory of that hospital bed meeting is hazy at best), but knowing and accepting are two entirely different things. She hadn’t been M when he first met her, but she had risen to that rank by the time he had been taken off probation, thanks to the success of the Transition. It hasn’t quite sunk in, that she is no longer the one in charge, and while Mallory seems unobjectionable, it just isn’t the same.

        Not everything changes, unfortunately. He still very, very much hates psych.

        Q and psych had always had a… complicated relationship, involving mutual distaste on both ends. Q had never liked anyone prodding into his personal business, since he is of the opinion that he has given MI6 enough of himself already, thank you very much. Psych in turn doesn’t appreciate how he reacts to their prodding, as it usually involved sophisticated technological sabotage that everyone knows is his doing but cannot prove (there’s a reason why ‘passive aggressive’ is written on all of his files, underlined, bolded, and italicized). Nothing permanent, of course, but enough to make even the most nosy of them think twice before they ask him about his goddamn feelings.

        There’s three psychiatrists waiting for him, each with a pen and clipboard. Two are unfamiliar; the third, Doctor Riley, is an old nemesis of his. Q had actually thought she had retired years ago, but he’s either unlucky or she came out of retirement just to harangue him. He doesn’t have the energy to scowl at her, just slouches back in the uncomfortable metal chair and stares at a point above their heads. He has little interest in being here, and even less so in facing them, but he doesn’t voice these opinions. They would just be ignored anyway.

        “Mr. Coulter,” she starts, and waits for him to acknowledge her words.

        He doesn’t. Her pinched expression is delightfully familiar as they sit in silence, challenging each other to speak first.

        Doctor Riley breaks first because unlike him, she probably has a schedule to keep. She isn’t happy about it, sighing as she taps her pen against the table. He wonders if that is a nervous tick, but knows better than to ask. That would just lead to questions, and questions will lead to nothing good. “Mr. Coulter, do you know why you are here?”

        He takes in a deep breath. “I imagine it has something to do with three weeks of being sexually assaulted by a former MI6 agent turned madman, but do feel free to correct me if I’m wrong.”

        The two unfamiliar ones exchange wary looks, suggesting that they are well aware of his reputation. As for Riley, she just looks like she is developing a massive headache, although she manages to calm herself long enough to say, “We’re not here to make things difficult for you, Mr. Coulter. We’re just here to help.”

        Like he has never heard that one before. It’s like she believes if she says it enough times, he might actually believe her.

        But if she was remotely capable at her job, shouldn’t she know just how much he has been dreading this? There’s no way any good can come from this. He just knows that if they try to get him to talk about what happened, he’ll probably shut down completely as he is forced to remember each and every thing that Silva did to him. Worse, if they try to psychoanalyze him, he’ll almost certainly end up a huddled mess in the corner of the room (and considering how it looks like it hasn’t been properly cleaned in ages, that will be both humiliating _and_ unhygienic). Because the last person who tried to psychoanalyze him was Silva, and Silva was so very good at finding his weaknesses and parading them to the world until he forgot how he used to be capable of things. Silva didn’t just make him feel vulnerable; the man had made him feel like he wasn’t a person anymore, just a bundle of fraying nerves that existed only to endure pain and abuse. And even if he tells himself that the psychiatrists don’t have the same goal, as much as they dislike one another, the effect will be the _same_.

        He can’t go through that again, not now, not ever. He just has to be left alone, to lose himself in his work until he doesn’t remember himself anymore. And that would be better for everyone, wouldn’t it? He wouldn’t have to relive what happened to him, and MI6 would get their quartermaster and the skills he brings to the table. They don’t _need_ him sane, as long as he is capable, and he is that, really, he is. Silva hasn’t taken that away from him; he just needs a chance to show them that.

        So what if he keeps looking over his shoulder, expecting Silva to run his hands down his skin, to hold him down and kiss his neck like he is nothing more than a means to an end? Most of the people at MI6 are suspicious, paranoid bastards, so it wouldn’t be anything _new_. In his case, he’s even better off because at least Silva is already dead and won’t be coming back, except that no matter how many times he has told himself that all he can think of is Silva, Silva, _Silva_ , and-

        “Mr. Coulter!” Her voice is sharp but he can barely hear it over his own heaving gasps, his hands clawing at the table as he scrambles to his feet. It’s too constricting, this room, and he suddenly realizes he can’t be in here. Before he can understand what he is doing, he finds himself in front of the door, frozen. He has to get out but he can’t reach out to open the door because he’s spent too long in locked rooms ( _he can’t help himself any longer, pounding his fists against the door, begging for someone to let him out but the guards just ignore him until he sinks to the ground, sobbing hysterically_ ), and if he tries the door and it doesn’t open he’ll-

        The door opens.

        He finds himself staring wildly at Bond. The man looks worried, but he doesn’t acknowledge it as he pushes past. He doesn’t have the presence of mind to thank Bond for opening the door, just flees without pausing to think of an end destination. Behind him, he can hear Riley yelling at 007, but he doesn’t hear Bond’s responses or any footsteps following him, determined to take him back. Maybe Bond is distracting them or maybe they just know better than to come after him when he’s like this. It doesn’t matter.

        (The nightmares will follow him regardless.)

* * *

        He ends up in Major Boothroyd’s office.

        Technically speaking, it’s his office now, but he’s having trouble thinking of it that way. In any case, it’s not the reason why he ends up there. Really, it was an automatic reaction; in his early days at MI6, he had spent a lot of time in this office, when he couldn’t face going back to his empty flat. Major Boothroyd always had something to distract him – a new project or a theory or _anything_ that could keep his mind off of that tiny cell – making this office a place of refuge. Even after he had buried his fears, he’d spent a lot of time here, kipping on the sofa or trading ideas late into the night.

        It’s no wonder he has retreated here once again, and the familiarity is dizzying, more so than when he had first returned to his flat. Maybe this isn’t where he slept (usually), but it was a place where he had felt most at… home. How many long hours and long nights had he spent here, trading stories or debating new ideas or just working in comfortable silence?

        Of course, all of those hours had been spent on the other side of the desk. He runs his fingers cautiously along the wood; Major Boothroyd had not survived the explosion, but his desk had. It’s a sharp reminder of how in spending so long feeling sorry for himself, he has forgotten about the man he had let down, both in getting him killed and being a piss poor replacement.

        Suddenly, it feels like he is intruding in this place. Even though this is the quartermaster’s office, and he _is_ the quartermaster (although he wouldn’t have been if not for his own incompetence), he feels like he doesn’t belong here. It was fine, when they were in the underground bunker because they all felt displaced there, but now that they’re back in familiar territory… it doesn’t feel right. He doesn’t feel right being here. He can tell himself that he would have ended up here eventually (M… Mansfield had said as much), but not _yet_. Not now.

        But like it or not, he is here, and he is starting to feel ridiculous standing there, facing an empty chair that should have been occupied by a man far better than him. So he forces himself to sit down, staring determinedly at the computer as he does so.

        The computer is his at least, the one he was primarily working on when they had moved to the underground bunker. It is only when his hands shake when he reaches to turn it on that he realizes that even this has been ruined for him ( _the screen fading to black, Silva at his back, the man whispering, “Not such a clever boy,” as a hand tightens around his wrist_ ), but he slams his finger into the power button and forces himself to push away his fear. _It’ll be fine_ , he tells himself viciously. This is _his_ , the thing that he cannot allow Silva to take away from him too. This _has_ to still be his.

        That conviction lasts for about twenty-three seconds before he realizes that something is wrong. Instead of asking him to enter his password, the computer seems frozen on a blank screen. But whether it was instinct or sheer, bloody paranoia, Q just _knows_ it has to be him.

        It has to be Silva.

        His throat constricts involuntarily and he feels like he’s one step from hyperventilating; it’s like all of his fears are coming true at once. Even though Silva is dead, the man is _still_ able to make his presence known even outside of Q’s fucked up brain. Because this is him, this has to be him, there is no other explanation. Somehow, Silva is using his own computer to mock him, and he again finds himself getting up, desperate to make the culmination of all of his nightmares _go away_. He doesn’t know if he should run or if he should just shove the computer off the desk; all he knows is that whatever twisted game Silva is still playing, he cannot be a part of it.

        But before he can reach down to yank out the power cord, M, Bond, Tanner, and _Silva_ appear on the screen. It looks like security footage; the camera is focused on Silva, who is sitting in a glass cage, the others facing him. It must be from after Silva had been brought to MI6, before he had escaped. His entire body freezes upon seeing the man; even on a screen, the sight of him is enough to make him feel faint.

        He knows he should turn the computer off. If this is from Silva, and it must be because who else would be able to get into his systems like this, then he doesn’t want to see it. Yet he’s frozen in place, unable to tear his eyes away from the screen as the audio starts playing, loud and inescapable.

        The conversation between M and Silva… there isn’t anything new, for him at least. Silva had already told him many of these things, those times when the man was feeling chatty rather than sadistic, and nothing that is said is a revelation. They speak of China, of betrayal, of names long forgotten but never truly. But then M turns to leave, and Silva asks, “ _Do they know?_ ”

        Both Bond and Tanner turn to stare at Silva. But not M. She doesn’t seem to acknowledge the question, and does nothing to stop Silva from continuing, uninterrupted as he asks… as he… god, what is he _saying_? Q hears the words but he’s not comprehending because what he is saying, if what he is saying is-

        “ _Does he know that you were the one who sent him there, expecting, hoping I would be there to pick him up? That you wanted to draw me out, or perhaps you even meant for me to take him so that you could follow me to my hideout, to retrieve that list? Does he know that you gave him to me, so beautifully gift-wrapped, to do with as I pleased, just for the chance that you would find me?_ ” Silva asks, and it’s almost like he’s asking Q. Because M doesn’t answer; M won’t even look at Silva, and Q _cannot breathe_ as he stares at the screens, the words, the implications… _everything_ echoing through his skull, over and over again as he tries to understand just what is being said.

        Bond opens the door just in time to hear Silva’s parting words to him.

_“What would he say, if he knew that you intended for this to happen all along?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the story that won’t stop growing. Welcome to another chapter split. The good news is that I don’t think it will cause any problems (for reals this time). The bad news is that it won’t cause problems because I’m at the point where I have a destination but no idea how to get there, so my plan is just to let the characters run wild. But they haven’t steered me wrong yet, so maybe that is best for everyone.


	11. Q

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“It was never about him and me,” Bond replies. “It was about him, M, and you. I was just a trigger to be pulled.”_
> 
> _“We do have a habit of using people for our own ends,” Q agrees pleasantly. “Don’t you ever get tired of it?”_

        Because everything else in Q’s life has perfect timing, the recording ends at that precise moment. The screen goes blank. Q barely notices as he stares at Bond, wondering vaguely if Bond is going to take out his gun and shoot the computer or him.

        _Oh_.

        “That’s why,” he whispers more to himself than to Bond, as he finally gets the answer to his question. It makes so much more sense than any other explanation he could come up with. This video, that conversation… it explains so perfectly what Bond has been doing all of this time.

        Bond doesn’t respond. Maybe he didn’t hear Q’s horrified words, but that would require giving him the benefit of the doubt and Q has learned better. It’s more likely that he just has nothing to say. It’s not like he could deny it, right? He won’t flatter himself to think that he knows Bond at all, but this doesn’t seem like the type of thing the agent would lie about. Avoid, yes, but flat out lie about? Not when the truth is so obvious to them both.

        And what a truth it is. It is so simple, so _elegant_ , neatly explaining so many things that had been in the back of his mind, bothering him. Inconsistencies that he had ignored because there were so many other things to obsess over, but now are at the forefront of his thoughts. He had never understood why 007 couldn’t simply meet him at his office; there was no reason why he had to leave. Except apparently, there was. Apparently there was a need, one he couldn’t know about.

        Had M intended for it to go this far? Perhaps she had assumed Silva would simply kill him. He had done the same to the others, and he doubts that would have gone unnoticed by her, once she knew he was alive. She probably hadn’t intended for… _this_ to happen, but that doesn’t make him feel any better. Maybe she had thought the field agents would be able to protect him, but then wouldn’t she have assigned a double-o? Wouldn’t she have _told_ him? Unless she had thought he would be taken, that Silva didn’t just intend to do away with him… could she have foreseen this happening?

        She had done it before. With Silva, with Bond, with so many others that he couldn’t even remember their names any longer. What was another, especially someone who couldn’t even do his job properly? Given the bigger picture, the lives of all of those people and the reputation of MI6 itself, what was one person?

        Except one person could do a lot, couldn’t he. Silva had certainly proven that, attacking MI6, jeopardizing undercover agents, attacking the Inquiry, and ultimately causing M’s death. All for one, simple reason: revenge. Bond had seen that first hand, and now he is here to make sure that Q doesn’t get the chance to do the same thing.

        Well. This is his chance. Q has no ability to stop him, and even if he did, he isn’t sure he would. He just stares at Bond, waiting. Because that is why Bond is here, isn’t it. To nip the problem in the bud, to prevent another Raoul Silva from being created. It just makes such perfect sense now.

        Except that Bond isn’t pulling out his weapon. He isn’t asking questions or offering explanations (excuses). He simply watches Q, waiting for him to… to what, exactly? Yell, break down again, demand answers… what does Bond want from him?

        “What are you waiting for?”

        Bond doesn’t flinch, not exactly, but he doesn’t look quite as impassive anymore either. Q can’t read him, but that’s not saying much. Apparently Q doesn’t know anyone as well as he thought he had, or he was just a poor judge of character (the two might be interchangeable).

        “I won’t stop you,” he adds, in case that is what Bond is concerned about. He doesn’t know why it would be, since he’s obviously not capable of stopping 007, especially when he’s standing between the man and Queen and country.

        “I know,” Bond replies quietly, before turning and walking away without another word.

* * *

        He doesn’t remember how he gets back to his flat. He doesn’t remember going through the motions, pulling out some of the leftovers from the prior night and forcing it down, before running a shower once he is sure that he isn’t going to throw it all up. He doesn’t remember much of anything, so lost in Silva repeating, over and over again, _Does he know_?

        It’s a very good question.

        He ends up in his own bed for the first time in a very, very long time. Silva is waiting for him there, but he doesn’t have the strength to do anything but give in. He barely shivers as a rough finger runs down his spine, to the whisper of, “ _I told you so._ ”

        (It’s not mocking; it’s almost sad, like Silva wishes he did not have to know. They both know it is a lie.)

        “I know.” It’s his turn now to use those words, but he doesn’t have the luxury of walking away. He closes his eyes and prepares himself for whatever the man wishes to do, but Silva just presses a gentle kiss against his forehead, like the last the real Silva had given him (tender, tinged with what almost seemed like regret).

        That night, he sleeps without nightmares. It’s little comfort though, seeing how he wakes up haunted by that one, single question.

        _Does he know?_

* * *

        A part of Q rather expects to be greeted by armed guards, ready to escort him away to a cell to be put down quietly and efficiently. Considering what Silva had managed to accomplish in the name of revenge, a little paranoia on MI6’s behalf wouldn’t go misplaced. Perhaps if there was more paranoia, he wouldn’t be in this position. Perhaps if M—Mansfield had made sure that Tiago Rodriguez was dead, rather than assuming it, she would be alive and he wouldn’t spend hours of each day resisting the temptation to scratch off his own skin.

        But it’s too late for that. Silva and Mansfield are gone, and Q remains in their place. They’re probably wondering what he’s going to do, if they haven’t already assumed and are just counting down to what they view as the inevitable. It’s almost flattering that they think he’s capable of such things. Either that or insulting.

        When his flat remains blissfully free of windows being broken and doors being knocked down, he doesn’t breathe a sigh of relief. For one thing it’s simply putting off the inevitable because it is not as if they are ever going to trust him now. Which is fine; he doesn’t trust them either, and he has even less reason to do so now. Even if the decision was Mansfield’s alone, it’s one that is sanctioned by the MI6 establishment. The greater good, the bigger picture, the many over the few. He knows all of that, has known it for a long time, but Silva is right. Being on the other side is not very pleasant.

        For another, 007 is in his kitchen, boiling water, and there are so many things wrong with this picture.

        “What are you doing?”

        Bond turns to face him. He doesn’t look surprised that Q is there, which makes sense given that this is Q’s flat so of course he would be here (007’s right to be here is an entirely different story). But considering how Q’s reaction to this highly unwelcome intrusion could have been considerably more violent, he finds Bond’s calm demeanor irritating at best.

        Which is strange because he shouldn’t be irritated. He should be angry at this newest betrayal (there’s so many now that he’s starting to lose count), or maybe scared for his life. Except he’s too tired to be angry and too unattached to his life as is to be scared about retaining it. So maybe irritation isn’t the appropriate response, but he doesn’t give a damn about what the appropriate response should be anymore. Nothing about what has happened in the past months has been _appropriate_ , so he thinks he is entitled to however the hell he wants to feel.

        (Perhaps there was some anger after all.)

        But if Bond senses that they are crossing into dangerous territory, he doesn’t show it as he points out the obvious. “I’m making tea.”

        “I can see that,” he replies, with far more calm than he thought possible. He’s starting to regret his lack of knives, although he’s not sure who he would use them on. “But that doesn’t explain why you are here.”

        “I’m making you tea,” Bond clarifies uselessly.

        “I don’t want your tea.” What he means to say is _‘I don’t want you here_ , _’_ but seeing how 007 is a super spy, the man should be able to figure that out on his own. But either Bond is ignoring it or is simply dense because Bond doesn’t leave, instead pouring a cup and placing it on the table, close to where he is standing. He doesn’t know if he should run or tackle the man. Both seem likely to get him in trouble, so he just stays where he is.

        Bond frowns, like he isn’t sure why Q is being so stubborn. “It’s Earl Grey,” Bond points out, like that means something. Maybe he’s suggesting that he hasn’t poisoned it (not that he would; it’s not his style. He’s more of a guns blazing sort of person). “I seem to recall you saying that you can do a lot of damage in your pajamas, before your first cup.”

        It would be charming if Q was in any mood to be charmed and Bond was actually making an effort. But the man’s words seem more wry than anything; it’s not quite a joke, but it’s not as serious as the situation would seem to warrant. “Stop it.”

        Bond raises an eyebrow, as if to ask, ‘Stop what?’ without actually saying anything. For a man who has such a good poker face, he is disturbingly easy to read when he wants.

        “Stop… stop _this_ ,” he gestures ineffectually (the story of his life). “You don’t have to pretend. You don’t have to act like you want to be here. You don’t have to… we both know why you’re here.”

        The frown deepens. “Do we now?”

        “Don’t patronize me,” he snaps. “Don’t pretend this is anything but what it is. You’re here to eliminate the threat. I don’t know why you haven’t already, or why you’re stringing me along like this, but whatever your reasons, just stop it. Because I can’t, I really can’t, I can’t live with this hanging over my head because there’s enough there already without you adding to it. So whatever you’re going to do, please, just _please_ do it already.”

        He’s shaking now, and god he’s pathetic but considering how he’s essentially asking (begging) Bond to just kill him now and save them all the trouble, there’s not much farther for him to fall at this point. Except that Bond still, frustratingly, is refusing to do as is expected, pouring another cup of tea instead of pulling out a gun.

        “That’s not why I’m here.”

        This is not in any way reassuring, if only because Q doesn’t believe him. Because really, there’s no other explanation for Bond’s presence, and nothing the man has said thus far has convinced him otherwise. He doesn’t mean anything to Bond; there isn’t any way he could. Bond hadn’t seemed that impressed with him during their first meeting, and then there was the island… if that inspired anything, it would be pity and condescension. Not… whatever Bond is pretending is the reason why he is here. Not that. “Then why are you? Surely it isn’t the witty banter that has you coming back here.”

        “Would that be so bad?”

        He knocks over the cup in his anger. It’s not on purpose, not exactly, more of a need to lash out at 007 but the cup just got in his way. He has a feeling that if he did try to attack Bond right now, the man would simply let him. Bond has surely taken more than whatever he is capable of dealing out right now, so the man would probably be more than willing to act as his punching bag. But that just makes it worse, that he isn’t capable of any actual damage.

        Not now, at least.

        “Get out.” He points at the door, trembling. “You asked me what I want. I’m telling you. If you’re going to play these games, then play them somewhere else. Either do what you came here to do, or leave me alone. Because I’m not going to do this anymore. I can’t spend all of my time wondering what you’re going to do or what you want. Not again.”

        Bond doesn’t move. Instead, he just watches Q, before choosing his words carefully. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

        “You think I would believe that?”

        “No,” Bond says bluntly. “You have no reason to believe that, not after what you have been through. I don’t expect you to believe me, and I won’t insult you by offering you any more assurances. But that is why I am here, and that is why I will stay.”

        The sad thing is, even now, a part of him really wants to believe him. He wants to believe that there is someone who isn’t trying to use or manipulate him, but there’s a reason why “trust issues” is written on his psych evaluation and that was before he learned Mansfield had let him be kidnapped and raped for three weeks. That sort of thing tended to put a dent in what little remaining trust he had left in people, and that isn’t likely to change when it comes to Bond. Bond, who is notorious for leaving a trail of bodes in his wake, and who hadn’t said anything even though he was _there_ and he knew what Silva had said. What she had done. And yet he’d simply shown up, and while Q had never believed Bond’s motives were purely noble, this is a low even for him. The more he thinks about how Bond can even pretend that he’s there for any other reason but to make sure that Q doesn’t turn traitor, the angrier he gets.

        Of course, his anger is ineffective and useless, which is why Bond doesn’t leave. And it’s not fair, that he is still this incapable even though he’s away from the island. Things were supposed to get _better_ , he was supposed to have some measure of control over his life again. But he has no control over the nightmares or his mind or what MI6 wants to do to him or how anyone treats him, and that includes 007. He might not be at Silva’s mercy anymore (not technically, at least), but the man’s replacements are no better. In a way, they’re worse. Silva had never pretended to be anything other than what he was, but the others… maybe he didn’t trust them, but a part of him had wanted to. A part of him still wants to.

        One would think he would have learned better by now.

        “I don’t believe you,” he finally confirms, his voice flat. “You have no other reason to be here. You don’t owe me anything. We both know loyalty is meaningless in this line of work, so your pretending otherwise is both unnecessary and unappreciated. But if that is what you wish to do, then I will not stop you. We both know I couldn’t anyway, so I see no reason to humiliate myself further.”

        Bond opens his mouth, but whether it is to deny, lie, or divert his attention elsewhere, he doesn’t care. He walks away before 007 can say anything, and then he’s sitting himself in front of the television and turning the volume on high. It’s brutally effective in drowning out anything Bond might want to say, even if it doesn’t do anything about all of his doubts and questions.

* * *

        007 doesn’t leave. Q tries not to resent him too much for that. He doesn’t try very hard, and he doesn’t succeed.

        But at night, when the nightmares (they’re back in full force after the one night’s reprieve, except now when Silva takes him, it’s to the steady mantra of _does he know, does he know,_ do you know who did this to you?) and Bond’s presence somehow still helps him cling to his sanity by the slimmest of threads, Q tries not to feel pathetically indebted to him.

        He tries harder on that one, but he still doesn’t succeed.

* * *

        When he finally returns to MI6 for his next session with psych (he’s not sure why they are bothering), he again expects there to be armed guards and lots of questions about how traitorous he is feeling at the moment. There aren’t armed guards but there is an extra doctor (he’s not sure which is worse), and the questions all revolve with how he’s coping (not well, which is something he thinks should be fairly obvious).

        Unfortunately, he came prepared to defend himself or at the very least to ask the completely hypothetical question of “Are you still a traitor if you were the one who was betrayed first?” before they dragged him away, so he isn’t sure what to say when they start asking him about what happened on the island (a stupid question; they have the medical reports) or how he has been spending his time (existing, _barely_ ). He decides to respond with silence, which has the dual benefit of not letting his words get him in trouble and making Riley look like she is developing an ulcer. And to think that some people didn’t think Q enjoyed sharing.

        “Mr. Coulter,” she says for what has to be the hundredth time. “Need I remind you that we are here to help you. This isn’t punishment. You have been through a great deal, and we understand that you are… reluctant to discuss what has happened. But I do believe that if you are willing to cooperate with us, we can work through this together.”

        He tilts his head slightly, the only indication that he is listening. He still doesn’t understand why she is going on about cooperation and working together, when they all know he has no interest in doing either. He doesn’t want to talk to them, especially now, and he doesn’t understand why they can’t just get to the _point_.

        They wouldn’t be the only ones, of course. Bond hasn’t acted upon the fact that Q knows what Mansfield did, unless one counts their avoidance of each other. It makes home life awkward, to say the least, especially since Q’s flat isn’t actually that large. But 007 hasn’t shown any interest in leaving and Q doesn’t have the strength to throw him out, so they’re stuck in some kind of delicate balance (limbo), which any wrong word would break. Q has been sorely tempted to threaten that balance because he has no idea what the bloody hell Bond is trying to accomplish (unless it’s to drive him mad, in which case he is succeeding remarkably).

        “We need you to talk to us. We need you to make an effort.”

        He can’t help but laugh at that, a sharp, bitter sound. She makes it sound so easy, like all he has to do is open up and everything will be fine again. Can’t she see that he doesn’t want to talk about what happened? He spends so much of his time thinking about it that sometimes he thinks Bond putting a bullet through his head would be a goddamn mercy. Even now, no matter how angry he feels with Bond and Mansfield and all of MI6, it will give way to the fear and the terror and the need to beg, to beg for this to be over because he can’t live like this, he really can’t. It’s why he puts up with Bond; he hates the man, truly he does sometimes, but he is so lost that he still needs the man there. He needs _someone_ there, even if he doesn’t trust him, because it’s better than the alternative. It’s better than being locked in that room, with those memories and the fear of what is to come, and if he lets his mind linger for just a second he finds himself back there, screaming for someone to open the door and just _let him out_.

         That was what Mansfield had done to him. Even if Silva was the one who did the torturing, she let it happen. If not Silva, it would have been someone else. He would have ended up like this eventually. Angry and betrayed and one step away from tearing down the world around him, just because he wanted someone else to feel the same way that he does, and-

        His thoughts always stop there, as he realizes that he may understand Silva better than he would like. And the thought of being like Silva, after everything that man did to him… the thought is so horrifying that he almost wishes for the nightmares to come back instead because he isn’t Silva, he can’t be like Silva, he doesn’t want to _understand Silva_. Because if he understands him, then that would mean that what Silva did to him could be justified, and that can’t be right. He refuses to believe that could ever be right, except sometimes, sometimes when he is so angry he hates everyone and everything, it’s just so easy to understand.

        But that is precisely why he shouldn’t be here. He’s dangerous, a threat, a monster in the making. He shouldn’t be here with the psychiatrists, letting them poke and prod him like they could help him be something that he no longer is. And yet they persist, acting as if they don’t know what he is capable of, acting as if they don’t know that _he_ knows and-

        Suddenly, he turns to stare at the one-way glass. All he can see is his reflection; he still hasn’t got a hold on taking care of himself, or more precisely, wanting to take care of himself, and it shows. It occurs to him that is what Bond sees as well, and perhaps that is why… perhaps that is why Bond has not informed MI6 that he _knows_ what Mansfield did.

        It would explain why the psychiatrists aren’t testing his loyalties. It would explain why he hasn’t been taken away. But it doesn’t make _any_ sense, since Bond has no reason to not turn him in. He means nothing to Bond, except a potential threat, and Bond owes nothing to him. They’d barely _spoken_ before what had happened, and he doubts that the agent has been impressed with how loudly he can shriek when his imaginary monsters come out to play. Why would Bond do such a thing? What possible reason could he have?

        There has to be something. A part of him wonders if he should be grateful that Bond is offering him the benefit of the doubt, but it’s quickly, ruthlessly squashed by logic and experience. There _has_ to be something, especially when it came to someone like Bond, who has no reason to be merciful. In fact, given logic and experience, Bond would be the _last_ person to give someone a chance, especially when those chances usually ended up with people being dead. No, it has to be something else.

        He just doesn’t know what.

        Vaguely, he realizes that Riley is still speaking to him. He’s so used to tuning her out that it’s a surprise that anything filters through, since he long ago realized that anything the doctors had to say was self-serving bullshit, aimed not at helping anyone but at justifying their parasitic tendencies on the government purse. But he finds himself giving her a sharp look as she informs him gravely, “There is nothing to be ashamed of. It is not unusual for persons in your circumstances to feel like they could have prevented what happened. Many people-”

        “You think I blame myself?”

        The three nameless ones exchange _looks_ before scribbling down notes. He ignores them in favor of watching Riley, who is giving him a smile that is quite frankly, condescending. She might just be pleased that she’s getting through to him or she might be trying to placate him; either way, he wants very much to hurt her now.

        “It’s really quite common,” she assures him. “It’s not a sign of weakness, and-”

        “I don’t blame myself.” He almost laughs at how crestfallen they look, so sure that they had figured out what was wrong with him. The fact that he’s telling the truth only makes it better.

        There are, of course, a lot of things he blames himself for, Major Boothroyd’s death being at the top of a very, very long list. But that isn’t what they’re talking about.

        “He was very determined,” he adds helpfully, and he’s sure that his mouth is twisted into a pained smile. It’s the first time he’s really talked about Silva. It’s not what he would have chosen to say about the man, but then if he had any choice in the matter, he wouldn’t have said anything at all. But he wasn’t about to let them think that he _blamed_ himself, especially when he was really busy blaming _everyone else_. They had put him there, in an impossible situation, and they thought he blamed himself for not being able to cope with it? He isn’t sure if he wants to laugh or throw something, so he settles for saying, “It wouldn’t have mattered what I did. He had a goal, and he would have reached it sooner or later. The inevitability of time, so to speak. I suppose I could have given in a little earlier, pretended to give him what he wanted, but I think he would have seen through that. He was very perceptive. And very, very determined.”

        So determined, in fact, that Q had never really considered what he could have done to save himself. Because the answer was nothing. Silva had wanted something from him, and he had no way of denying the man, especially when he still doesn’t know what exactly Silva had wanted. He had tried, of course, but in the end the only thing he could do was to give in and hope that was enough. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t, he honestly has no idea. All he had known at the time was that he had no choice in the matter, and all he knows now is that he had never stood a chance.

        Mansfield had made sure of that.

        But Mansfield and Silva are gone now. Unfortunately for everyone else, his anger is not, and the fact that they think he _blames himself_ enrages him in a way he had not thought possible a few days back. Back then, he was so enmeshed in his own nightmares that he hadn’t even had the time or energy for anger. Now, especially with what he knows, it sometimes feels like it is the only thing he has left, and he honestly doesn’t care who knows it by this point. Because after everything they have done to him, it seems to be the least they deserve.

        “You know,” he says, keeping his voice deliberately bland as he looks straight into Riley’s eyes. “Silva told me that the Chinese let him go free. What better weapon than a soldier who was betrayed by his country and has both the capacity and the will for revenge?”

        He lets the words hang between them, and he politely waits until he sees their eyes widen as the implications sink in.

        “Think on that, if you will.” And without giving them a chance to respond, he stands up and leaves. He doesn’t owe them a chance to respond anyway.

* * *

        For the first time in ages, he doesn’t feel any fear as he slams the door shut behind him. In its place is something unfamiliar, a dark, vicious pleasure at the fear he has instead inflicted on the doctors. It’s not that his own fears have been forgotten; they’ve just been temporarily replaced with the knowledge that he isn’t the _only_ one now. And maybe Riley and her still nameless minions weren’t the cause of it, but they’re MI6. MI6, who sent him there knowing what ( _who_ ) was waiting for him, who let this happen to him, who sent a broken agent to save him after it was already too late. It’s the least they deserve.

        Besides, isn’t this what they wanted? They kept asking him how he was feeling; well, now they can know it first-hand. What was the point of describing it when this was far more efficient (and effective)? He could tell them each and every thing that happened to him on that island, and they still wouldn’t understand how he felt. The despair, the sense of not really _being_ anymore – what would they know about spending every moment of every day, waiting for Silva to hurt you, all in the guise of teaching-

        _I’ll teach you how to make them go away._

        It wouldn’t be the first time someone covered for their own pain by wreaking it on someone else.

        Once again, the realization hits him like a physical blow, and it takes everything in him not to stagger back. He leans against the wall, his hand covering his mouth as he tries not to be sick. He closes his eyes, feeling the hands trace his scars, and Silva’s sharp, satisfied laugh. It wasn’t enough for Silva, to limit his revenge to M and Q; all of MI6 would have to pay, to truly fulfill his desires. Remove the leader, place in a threat, watch the place burn from the inside out. Or not watch, as Silva is dead, but he probably took his satisfaction to the grave.

        Of course, it’s all conjecture on his part. But even if he wants nothing to do with Silva, he is tied to the man through both distant and recent history. Silva made it possible for him to be here, in more ways than one, and now Silva wanted to make sure he had some say in how Q turned out.

        Well. That, the man had certainly accomplished.

        He doesn’t open his eyes as he feels someone stand next to him, and resists the urge to laugh. Of course. There’s a bit of irony in being the one watched when he had been the one assessing and judging the agent’s strengths only a few weeks back, and he wonders if 007’s thoughts are more complimentary than his were.

        “What,” he says, more resigned than angry. It is not a question, which is probably why Bond doesn’t answer. He sighs and asks, “So, I suppose you heard all that then.”

        “Hard not to,” Bond replies, and Q is trying to decide whether he appreciates the man’s blunt honesty. That depends on whether he believes Bond is being honest. Bond has no reason to lie, but he has no reason to tell the truth either. Still, whatever Bond is doing, at least he isn’t being patronizing by pretending that he hadn’t heard anything when it is obvious to anyone with a functioning brain cell that he has been watching the session through the glass. “It looks like you’ve given them a fit.”

        That much is obvious. He doesn’t need Bond’s well-honed agent senses (i.e., paranoia) to verify the dry observation; he knows without looking that the doctors will be panicked, and Q wonders dispassionately if they’re already preparing to have him put on indefinite suspension due to unresolved mental (and trust) issues. Or better yet-

        “If they decide to terminate me with prejudice, I hope they send you,” he says. “At least you’ll be quick about it.”

        Because it’s not about trust. He doesn’t think he will be able to trust anyone ever again, sometimes (all of the time).

        Bond gives him a long look before replying evenly, “They wouldn’t send me. I’m too close to this. Besides, that’s a little morbidly premature, don’t you think?”

        “It must be, if that’s what you think.” He doubts it is, especially since this is 007. Shouldn’t the man know better than any of them not to trust? In a perverse way, Bond’s casual conviction makes it even harder to trust him, since there’s no reason for Bond to be like this. “Were you always so forgiving, or did something happen in Scotland to make you feel more gracious towards the human race?”

        “I killed a man.”

        “Several, from what I heard. Although who knows if anything they’re telling me is the truth. I’m a loose cannon, after all.” He says it matter-of-factly, trying to sound like he doesn’t care what they think of him.

        (He does though. Even now, even after what has happened, he does because MI6 is his _life_ , and it hurts to think that after all that he has given them, they might still think him capable of atrocities. But then, are they really that wrong? Weren’t all of them one step away from it, especially when their work put them so close to the worst of human nature?)

        Bond clarifies. “I killed the one who mattered.”

        He has to remind himself that Bond doesn’t know that Silva wasn’t the only one who had… taken him. It was only the once, but it was more than enough, and even if it’s Silva who haunts him the most that doesn’t mean he has forgotten what the others had done to him as well. They might not have been the mastermind of this endeavor, but he knows from first-hand experience that even the pawns can cause a lot of damage (Silva is probably counting on that). “So the others didn’t? They were all just faceless, interchangeable minions between you and him?”

        “It was never about him and me,” Bond replies. “It was about him, M, and you. I was just a trigger to be pulled.”

        “We do have a habit of using people for our own ends,” Q agrees pleasantly. “Don’t you ever get tired of it?”

        “It depends on the ends.”

        He has to suppress a shiver at the man’s casual tone and all of the implications it ignores. “Is that why you are here?”

        Bond gives him a long look. “I told you why I’m here.”

        “No, I don’t believe you did. You told me what you weren’t here to do, which as we have established, I have my reservations about. And even if I was to believe you, it doesn’t explain what your goal is here.” He has no idea how he is able to say the words so calmly, considering all that is happening. He feels like his grip on everything – his sanity, his work, his _life_ – is crumbling, and yet he is just standing here, chatting with Bond as if everything is fine with the world when it clearly is not and never will be again.

        He is reminded of how wrong this entire conversation is when Bond points out simply, “You’re a danger.”

        He nods, unsurprised. “You think I don’t know that?”

        Bond has the audacity to look _annoyed_ , but before Q can consider proving 007’s point in a way that is liable to get him killed, Bond says, “You don’t have to be.”

        Q opens his mouth to respond, then stops when the words sink in and he stares at Bond. He’s pretty sure he looks ridiculous, mouth and eyes wide open, but he hadn’t… he certainly hadn’t been expecting that. He hadn’t been expecting that at all, although he somehow forces himself to lie, “I know that too.”

        Bond doesn’t laugh at him, or point out the obvious lie, even though Q wouldn’t blame him if he did either. The words come out almost as a stammer and would fool no one, especially a seasoned killer like Bond. But rather than shame him with that knowledge, Bond just closes his eyes.

        There’s a smile on his face, one that makes Q certain that he too is speaking from experience. But unlike hers, there’s something else there that doesn’t make him feel terrible and lost. It’s something he would never have expected to see on Bond’s face, of all people, but he doesn’t (doesn’t _want_ to) question it because for a moment, it is enough to let him believe when Bond says, “Sometimes, it’s nice to have a reminder of it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately looking at another break next week. The next chapter is being very stubborn, and since we are at the end, I don’t want to rush things. So at the risk of sounding like a broken record (although that probably describes 90% of my writing), my sincerest apologies for the delay. You’ve all been so lovely about my (tediously slow) writing pace.


	12. James Bond

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _James had made the mistake of thinking of his new quartermaster as an inexperienced boy when they first met, but it hadn’t taken long for Q to disabuse him of that notion. Now, broken and more dangerous than ever, he sees a man who could take down all of MI6 if given the opportunity and, more importantly, a reason to do so. And he has reasons. Silva has given him plenty of reasons._

        If anyone was ever to raise the issue, James would be the first to admit that he had been the wrong person to ask. Given that the only (effective) way he knew how to help people involved putting a bullet through somebody, he probably should have been one of the last people to be tasked with this.

        Unfortunately, there hadn’t exactly been anyone else to ask at the time.

        He still doesn’t know if M – _Olivia Mansfield_ , he has to remind himself – had known what awaited her in Scotland. Knowing her, she must have suspected that she would not be returning, and might have even thought of it as an inevitable conclusion to her twisted history with Silva. But by the time they were on the road, it was too late for her to ask someone capable.

        Sometimes James wonders if he had made a mistake, taking her away from the protection of MI6. He doesn’t think so. Silva had had the upper hand for far too long, predicting their every move, and a drastic change had been necessary even if it had not panned out as he had hoped. At least the amount of collateral damage had been minimal, with the… minor exception of the total destruction of the manor (dealing with the fallout of explaining to the purchasing party that their new home was in complete ruins is a problem that is MI6’s alone to deal with, since they were the ones who had put the estate on the market in the first place). And of course, there was the matter of Silva himself.

        James would be lying if he said he hadn’t felt some grim satisfaction when the knife had hit Silva in the back (a knife in the back… a fitting end, given all this talk of betrayals), even if it hadn’t saved her. Death rarely saved anyone, especially when it was in the name of revenge. And there had certainly been plenty of that. Silva may have had genuine grievances with Mansfield and MI6, but what he had done went far beyond that. James may have his regrets over what happened during the Skyfall incident, but ending Silva will never be one of them. Not after what that man had done.

        Even though Silva is gone, the consequences of his actions remain. It’s not hard to see what Silva had intended, considering how dangerous Q is. James had made the mistake of thinking of his new quartermaster as an inexperienced boy when they first met, but it hadn’t taken long for Q to disabuse him of that notion. Now, broken and more dangerous than ever, he sees a man who could take down all of MI6 if given the opportunity and, more importantly, a _reason_ to do so. And he has reasons. Silva has given him plenty of reasons.

        That was why, when he had walked in on Q and that security footage, all he could see of Q was his frightening potential to be a threat, a threat that had to be eliminated immediately. He should have anticipated that Silva would have ensured that Q would see that footage sooner or later, but he had assumed Tanner would have taken steps to prevent that. But their actions had been restricted by the need to keep the information as close as possible. Mallory – well, M now – had been informed, of course, but no one else, including Q-branch. And considering how Q-branch was in the best position to actually ensure that the footage never reached Q, it was no wonder that Silva had succeeded.

        Except… had he, really? Because Q is still here, rather than locked in a cell or in a shallow grave, both options that James had seriously considered. And he would have taken action, if he had deemed it necessary. But he hadn’t. Not yet, anyway.

        Q is angry. He has a right to be angry, confused and betrayed and no longer capable of trust, even when the nightmares get so bad that he has no choice except to depend on others. James can tell that he doesn’t want to do even that, in the way he holds himself back until he simply cannot take it any longer, and draws away as soon as possible. But that anger has yet to translate to something concrete enough for James to inform Tanner and M of what has happened, and so the only persons who know that Q has seen that footage are Q and himself.

        He sometimes wonders if that is also a mistake. He wonders about this one less; first of all, he has never seen the point of spending too much time playing through past actions. He learned long ago that too much retrospection can be paralyzing, as the “what ifs” and “maybes” take on a life of their own. The best thing he can do, he finds, is to pick himself up and move on, and try not to make the same mistakes again.

        Second (and most importantly), he knows that the real mistake would be to tell the others. They’re all too aware of what one person is capable of doing, and Q is no ordinary person. Maybe Q couldn’t manage the amount of damage that Silva had accomplished, but he wouldn’t need to, especially considering how vulnerable MI6 now is in the wake of Silva’s actions. Silva has paved the way in more ways than one, and if he was to tell Tanner and M that Q _knows_ , he would be failing the last directive Mansfield ever gave him. There was no way they would leave Q alone, and no chance for Q to ever reclaim what Silva had taken from him. And after everything he had been through, isn’t a chance the least that he deserves?

        That is why James is willing to take that risk, even if he knows it shouldn’t be his call. He knows he’s too close to be making this decision, especially when the potential damage is so great and the benefit is only a single person. Weighing the two, the choice should be simple.

        Except that he has never been very good at “should,” and even though he doesn’t owe Q anything, at the very least MI6 does. He will give the younger man the chance to prove them all wrong. Silva has hurt Q enough already, and whatever Silva had planned, whatever Silva had wanted from him, Q should not be bound by it. He has to have the opportunity to not become what Silva had intended for him, something that would never happen if MI6 was to get involved. It might not be the smart thing to do, but he thinks it is the right thing.

        Besides, Mansfield had made the same calculation, and had come to the same conclusion. And even now, after everything that has happened, he will trust her judgment on this point. She has asked him to help Q, to give the quartermaster that chance. Mansfield isn’t so sentimental as to let her loyalty to the quartermaster engulf her loyalty to Queen and country, so if she asked, there has to be a reason for it. A reason that either meant the risk was worth taking or that there was no risk at all.

        James doesn’t know which it is. He doesn’t have to. Because what he does know is that, for them, he will do what he can to salvage something from the destruction that has been wrought.

* * *

        “How is he doing?”

        James doesn’t move from where he is watching Q through the one-way glass. “You’ll have to ask psych about that.”

        To both his and Q’s surprise, psych had not reported Q for his not so subtle threats, which is good because James really hadn’t wanted to resort to even less subtle threats to keep the quartermaster out of whatever hole they would have tried to put him in. It’s not all good though because it means Q has to keep going to his sessions with Riley and the ever-changing rotation of nameless underlings, none of which have lasted more than three stints. Sometimes, judging from Q’s expression when he gets the reminder for his next appointment, James has a feeling that Q would have preferred that cell.

        Not that James can blame him though. He’s never had much patience for being lectured by some incompetent who has never been in the field or been forced to make a decision in a no-win situation. Q seems to share that opinion whole-heartedly; while he hasn’t walked out of any more sessions or made any more pointed comments that could be interpreted badly, his answers (when he can be bothered to give any) are impressively vague and sometimes downright hostile. He also flatly refuses to play any word association games.

        Eve, of course, knows all of this already, judging by her huff of disgust at his suggestion. She’s probably read all of the doctor’s reports twice over (as far as MI6 is concerned, doctor-patient confidentiality is a quaint concept with no meaning in the real world), and is now looking to him for actual, real information. “I’m asking you.”

        “Why me?”

        She gives him a look that clearly asks, _Must we?_ He rewards her with what he hopes is a charming smile. Eve could push further, but she decides to indulge him instead as she observes off-handedly, “You haven’t bought or rented a new place yet.”

        He doesn’t bother asking her how she knows that (as far as MI6 is concerned, _privacy_ is a quaint concept with no meaning in the real world). “No.”

        “No hotels either.”

        “No hotels,” he confirms both her spoken statement and her unspoken question. He had basically moved in the first day he had shown up at Q’s flat, although it had taken him a while to get fully situated. Not that he had very much; a lot of it had been lost when MI6 had sold his flat and put his things in storage (he should be grateful that they hadn’t also emptied out his bank accounts while they were at it, although he would gladly bet the pension he will never get that they had tried), and he hadn’t had much to begin with. There wasn’t much point to accumulating belongings when they all knew he was one wrong step from attending his own funeral, and he isn’t sentimental enough to form attachments anyway.

        Still, he had felt odd about bringing his few possessions to Q’s flat, like he was invading the younger man’s privacy. Which seemed like the least of his worries since his very presence there was an invasion, a fact that hangs between them like a rock pulling them under. He still remembers the day he found Q quietly making space in the guest bedroom closet, and he should have said something then. He hadn’t, and neither had Q, although the awkward silence that had followed had spoken more about their situation than words could at the time.

        Eve doesn’t ask further, instead crossing her arms as she watches Q give non-answers to Riley’s questions. Sometimes Riley seems like the one who will break first and start throwing things, although she’s hiding her frustration well today. But like the doctors’ reports, watching Q interaction with psych isn’t providing anything of value, which is why Eve says, “Well, whatever you’re doing, it seems to be working.”

        Her remark is made with all the subtlety of someone gently lobbing a hand grenade, and it is only through his 007 training and experience that he doesn’t stare at her. It’s another reminder of her potential for fieldwork, although she’s probably even more invaluable in her current position, and will no doubt become integral to the smooth functioning of MI6. Or functioning, period.

        But just because he admires her skill doesn’t mean he has to give her an actual answer. Or any answer at all. Yet he finds himself saying, “I’m not doing anything.”

        Damn. If he’s lucky, she’ll take that as further stalling because he hadn’t been planning on giving her the truth. Because really, it hadn’t taken him very long to realize how unqualified he is to help a person, especially someone as mentally scarred as Q. While James has his own scars, it’s not the same thing, and it’s not exactly an experience that translates well to others. Because what Silva had done went far beyond physical pain, a systematic breaking down of resistance and will. It’s why James has spent so long insisting that Q make his own choices, even (especially) on the small things; in his experience, the ability to say yes or no could be just as important as the decision itself. He’s not sure how much Q remembers that after being subject to Silva’s whims for so long.

        It had been frustrating at the beginning, when Q had viewed every decision James had asked him to make as a pretense to bring him down further. He supposed that Q had a point, since when it came to actual substantive decisions – James’s presence, for one – he had been ignored. But that hadn’t stopped him from wanting to _force_ the younger man to just make up his mind, and sometimes the only thing that stopped him was the thought that it would make him no better than Silva, even if he did have Q’s best interests in mind.

        (James wonders how many times Silva must have told himself the same thing. It isn’t a comforting thought.)

        His luck holds out as Eve thinks he is just being modest, something he is rarely accused of. “You must be doing something.”

        “I’m really not.” He can tell from the stubborn set of her lips that she isn’t buying it, so he gives credit where it is actually due, “He’s stronger than he looks.”

        Because that was one thing Mansfield had been right about, as she so often was. Although the nightmares (not the most accurate term when the scars Silva had left on Q’s mind were not limited to the night) were becoming less constant, James knows from experience that they will never go away completely. But all the same, the times where he finds Q curled up in a corner, crying desperately, are no longer the norm. Although there was a period, especially early on, when he thought Q would never recover from what Silva had done (not to mention the layers of lies and distrust built upon that), Q is slowly but surely pulling himself away from the island and all of its horrors. James knows many people who would never have managed that, and it is really a testament to Q and Q alone that the younger man has gone this far.

        Except that leaves the question of where Q is heading towards now. Although Q has not spoken of it openly since their confrontation after Q had seen that footage, the quartermaster makes no secret of his belief that James is only there to make sure that he doesn’t become a liability. That he doesn’t become Silva. And given that it is a reason why he stays, James is in no position to dispel that notion.

        Even if it’s not the only reason.

        “I know he is,” Eve says quietly, a sad smile decorating her face. “But you should give yourself more credit. I was there when he was released from the hospital, and he… he wasn’t good. But he’s better now. You’re helping him get better.”

        Her sincerity bothers him, and he feels like he should correct her. While he could concede that at the beginning, when he was a convenient person for Q to cling to during his lowest points, he might have done some good, the present is a different story. As those times become less common, James wonders if his staying just confirms Q’s suspicions. His presence might be nothing more than a constant reminder of the organization that Q believes betrayed him, who gave him up to a madman like Silva in the vain hope of getting back a list of names. And maybe Q is right and he really is only there to keep an eye on the quartermaster. That is at least something he was trained to do, while this – whatever he is doing with Q the rest of the time – is clearly not. Is he even helping Q now, or is he himself creating the liability?

        He’s saved from the need to respond by Q opening the door. The younger man pauses, obviously not expecting anyone other than James as he looks between them, a slight frown on his face. But when Eve asks him how he is doing, she is rewarded with a smile that is small but surprisingly genuine, something James has never been allowed to see even before Silva. There haven’t been many reasons for Q to smile lately, especially not at the agent who is shadowing his every move.

        But even with Eve, there’s a certain distance that Q puts between them. Eve is sensitive enough not to comment on it, and James in turn ignores the way Q watches him from the corner of his eye. He knows what is happening. Because while he might be getting Q to eat and sleep and _live_ , there are still legitimate reasons for that look. Without trust, Q is slipping from them all, not into his memories but into that dark, angry space Silva has left as a final parting shot at them all, and James can only think of one way to change that.

* * *

        Q is quiet as they make their way back to the flat. That doesn’t change when they arrive; as soon as the door closes behind him, Q immediately starts to put some distance between them when James says, “Wait.”

        It is not a demand but a request, but when Q stops and looks at him there is still a hint of fear in his eyes. Whether it is the lingering effects of what Silva has done or because Q is scared of what he will do or both, he doesn’t know. He just knows that he hates it. James has seen so much in his experience, but that doesn’t stop him from hating what people can and will do to each another. He’s been guilty of it himself too (so there’s a lot of self-loathing kicking around), but this may be the first time he’s seen so clearly what it really does to a person. He’s never hung around for the aftermath, relying on MI6 to do the cleanup work, and he can only hope he has never gone this far. Because when he sees Q like this, the only thing he can think of is a burning desire to bring Silva back just to kill him all over again.

        But even putting aside the impossibility of that scenario (and the fact that the risk of a resurrected Silva isn’t worth even the satisfaction of murdering him again, especially when that bastard has cheated death so many times already), he knows that this is not just about Silva. It’s about Mansfield and MI6 and what he is doing here, and although he can speak only for himself, he knows he must because they cannot ignore it any longer. “You have questions.”

        Q hesitates, looking like he wants to lie or run as his body tenses in preparation for both. But he looks at James, takes in the stubborn resolve, and the fight flows out of him as he realizes that they will (and perhaps, must) have this conversation. “Yes.”

        James struggles to ignore the soft resignation (and the _fear_ ) in the admission. “Why won’t you ask them?”

        To his credit, the quartermaster doesn’t look away, staring straight into James’s eyes as he says simply, “I didn’t think there would be a point.” Which is to say, _I didn’t think you would tell the truth_.

        He supposes Q has a point, especially in their line of work, but he still has to say, “You wouldn’t know until you tried.”

        Q doesn’t respond. He doesn’t need to. James has never experienced what Q had gone through on the island, and he had never asked. Psych had certainly tried, but like the word association games, those were the questions Q would not acknowledge, let alone answer. But from what he knows of Q, which granted is not very much, he knows that whatever had happened on that island, Q had tried. He had tried very, very hard to stop Silva from doing whatever Silva was trying to accomplish, and had been shut down every time. And that sort of repeated failure is bound to have a lasting effect.

        So James doesn’t wait for Q to ask. Without taking his eyes off of Q’s, he says, “She asked me to be here, but not in the way you think.”

        He pauses when Q flinches back; they both know exactly who he is speaking of. This time James does wait, but Q still says nothing, not even a question or an angry remark. Instead, the younger man just takes a deep, calming breath before he goes back to watching James quietly, and he takes that as permission to continue. “She told me a little about you, how you were recruited to MI6. She told me that she had promised you-”

        “-that I would not be allowed to remain in the hands of any hostile entity,” Q finishes, with a soft laugh. It is both bitter and sad. “I’m surprised she remembers. I asked her if she would just have me killed instead. Did she remember that as well?”

        “She didn’t say.”

        Q doesn’t look surprised, instead closing his eyes. James recognizes that flat, empty look on his face, and knows what he is thinking of before Q even says the words. “So many times, I wish he had just killed me. It seemed so much simpler. What he was doing, a part of me knew that… there were worse things, yet death was never one of those things. I just wanted it to be over with. I didn’t care how, just as long as it was _over_.” His voice is so small, like he doesn’t want to admit those things. James doesn’t think this is the time to point out that the strength needed to admit what he is saying is far from little. “I just wish you had got around to it sooner.”

        “I told you before, that’s not why I’m here.”

        There is no contradicting him this time, as Q just lets out a tired sigh, “Then why did she send you here?”

        “To help.” He lets the words sink in, but he doesn’t give Q the opportunity to cut in because if he doesn’t say this now, he may never have the chance. “It doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t change what happened, or what she did or didn’t do. But regardless of that, she wasn’t… well, you’ve known her longer than I have. She makes her choices, and she lives with the consequences. I won’t defend her decisions, since god knows I haven’t always agreed with her, and have been on the wrong side of them at times.” _You should have trusted me to finish the job_. “But she always lived with the consequences.”

        He knows he’s not explaining himself well, and Q seems torn between confusion and annoyance. He can’t blame him; hell, he barely understands what he’s trying to say himself. This is why he doesn’t stick around for the aftermath, this is why he’s not suited for what Mansfield had asked of him. But still, she had asked him, and he will try. “She took responsibility for her actions. She never apologized for it, but she always took responsibility.”

        “Is that supposed to make it better?”

        “No,” he answers automatically. Because even if Mansfield had made the right choice, even if her actions were justifiable, that does not and would never diminish what Q has gone through. Anyone who tried to claim otherwise would be lying. “But that does not change that she did what she could to make things right. Sometimes, there isn’t anything that can be done. But that’s not how she saw you.”

        “And how do you see me, Bond?”   For the second time that day, his 007 training is severely tested. He hadn’t been expecting that particular question because this isn’t supposed to be about him, and when he doesn’t immediately answer, Q tilts his head slightly and asks, “Or is the only reason why you are here because she asked you to be?”

        He knows the answer to that, even though he doesn’t know why it matters to Q. The answer doesn’t make much sense, even to himself. But when it comes to Q, he’s found that his actions rarely do. Because he involves himself, even when he doesn’t have to. When he had finished his job and retrieved (what was left of) the quartermaster, he could… _should_ have walked away as he always did. But instead, he went back and _kept_ going back. Even now, when he should have been out in the field doing what he was good at – namely killing people in the name of Queen and country – against all reason he had voluntarily put himself in this position of trying to help piece someone back together.

        He doesn’t know what it is about Q, but he can see for himself what Mansfield had meant when she had said that she had wanted to spare him of this. It isn’t that he is weak because clearly, he is not, but he just… he just seems to deserve better than what they have come to accept as the norm for someone in this line of work.

        “I saw what he did to you.” He chooses his words carefully because even though this conversation is the closest Q has come to talking about what had happened on that island, he knows it couldn’t have been easy. The last thing he wants is for this to come to a close because he unwittingly triggered another panic attack.

        Q shrugs, “That wasn’t your fault.”

        “That’s not the point. I _saw_ what he did to you. I wasn’t going to walk away.”

        “Why ever not? You’ve done it before.” It’s not an accusation, but a simple, well-informed fact. He should have remembered that Q had read his file, probably before they had ever met. Q probably knows him better than he knows himself, so there isn’t much point to lying. Not that he was planning to in the first place.

        “I thought you deserved better.” Because Silva was clever and good at what he did, but Q is clever and competent and a far better person than he should ever have to be. Mansfield had left Tiago Rodriguez behind, but she hadn’t been willing to let the same thing happen to Q. And he in turn isn’t willing to let Q become Silva, not when he doesn’t have to. “You asked me how I see you, Q. I think you’re angry and hurt and don’t know how to trust anyone anymore, and I think you have the right to all those things. But that isn’t all you have to be. You can be so much more than that.”

        Something unreadable flicks through Q’s eyes, and once again James is left wondering if he is getting through to Q or just making everything worse. And before he can think about the wisdom of his next words, he says, “Learn from him.”

        Q stares at him like he’s grown another head. “What?”

        It’s too late to backtrack on this one, and he isn’t sure he would anyway. “You saw what happened to him, yet he didn’t give in. He came back.”

        “He came back with a bad dye job and murdered his former colleagues,” Q points out, his tone effectively killing any levity the words might have carried. “Is that what you’re suggesting I do as well?”

        He ignores that. “Just because they broke him doesn’t mean that he had to stay broken. We are what we make ourselves to be. Even if we’re influenced by others, in the end, it’s still our decisions that define who we are.” James gives him a long look, before he says quietly. “It’s how we come back that matters.”

        There is a long silence as Q just looks at him, and James wonders what he is trying to find. But he had meant what he had said, about taking control. Silva had wanted Q to be the newest avenue of a revenge decades in the making, and Mansfield had hoped that there would be a reason for Q not to. As for James, he barely cares what they want; all he knows is that this has to be Q’s decision. Of course with the decision comes the consequences, and while he may regret it James will not hesitate to take the quartermaster out if it should come to that. Because whether or not it does isn’t up to him, and he can only hope that Q has enough reasons not to give in.

        “That is very understanding for someone who was shot off a train and left to die,” Q finally replies, his voice carefully neutral as his words reveal nothing of what he is actually thinking.

        James smiles, and it is no doubt bitter. “It’s because I was shot off a train and left to die that I understand better than most.” Understands that anger and feeling of betrayal, and the fury at not being trusted to finish the job.

        And it occurs to him suddenly that Q’s problem may not just be that he doesn’t trust James or anyone else, but the feeling that they do not trust _him_. That Silva has planted that doubt in all of MI6 so that no matter what he does, he will always be watched and his actions questioned. James remembers what that had felt like during the Quantum incident, but at least that had been self-inflicted. He can’t imagine what it would have been like for Q, whose only offence was being in the wrong place at the right time.

        He’s forced out of that train of thought when Q says, rather than asks, “Is that why you didn’t tell the others?”

        There is no need to ask what precisely Q is referring to. “Yes.”

        “Why? It’s not as if you trust me.”

        And that is precisely why he respects Q. Even now, the quartermaster harbors no delusions about the state of their situation, and is practical enough not to pretend otherwise. Because James doesn’t trust him, but that’s not saying much because he doesn’t trust anyone. Not since Vesper. But that doesn’t mean he won’t give people chances, especially those who have earned it. And Q is someone who is worth gambling on, the consequences be damned. “They didn’t need to know.”

        “How could you be so sure of that?”

        “I’m not.”

        Q smiles. It’s not the one he gave Eve, the one that actually meant something, but it is not cold and twisted by despair. At this point, James will take what he can get. “Your honesty is refreshing, 007. You really are not what I expected.”

        He starts to ask what exactly Q had expected, but stops before he can form the first word. He doesn’t really need to ask because every double-o agent steals their files on a regular basis (Tanner had always pointed out in exasperation that they could just _ask_ , but they enjoyed the practice), so he already has a pretty good idea, and he changes his question, “Do you believe him?”

        Perhaps he had been selfish, not asking Mansfield about what Silva had said when he’d had the chance. He hadn’t needed to know, but shouldn’t Q have had that opportunity to decide as well? Because now with both Silva and Mansfield gone, taking with them their many secrets, Q would never know for certain exactly what had caused this to happen.

        The quartermaster doesn’t look surprised by the question, unless it’s by how long it has taken James to ask. He also doesn’t look like he wants to answer, but just as James is about to tell him that he doesn’t have to, he says almost as if he isn’t sure himself, “I don’t know. I suppose… I suppose it doesn’t matter what I believe. The possibility will always be there. I always knew she was capable of this, and I told him as much. It’s just that it’s so hard to remember that sometimes.”

        “It gets easier,” he says before he can stop himself. This time Q does look skeptical, and James’s lips quirk into a half-smile as he concedes, “Not by much.”

        “Speaking from experience?” Q asks, and for a moment James is back at that museum, both amused and exasperated by his young quartermaster’s sardonic attitude. It is a bittersweet reminder of what could have been.

        “Old age,” he corrects, and even though he knows that they will never be those people again, he lets himself enjoy the sound of Q’s amused laugh washing over him.

* * *

        Of course, it’s not perfect. As James had predicted, the nightmares don’t go away, striking without warning. There’s no trigger to avoid, nothing specific that sets them off; they come when they will, and there’s nothing either of them can do about it except to ride it out.

        And sometimes it’s more subtle than that, like when James walks into the kitchen and finds Q standing there, his hands curled around a mug of tea as he stares blankly at nothing, his face set in that empty, deadened look that James had become so painfully acquainted with on the island. When James sees him like that, he has to resist the urge to pull Q into his arms and protect him from the rest of the world. He doesn’t only because he knows Q doesn’t need protecting. Q is more than capable of protecting himself, his youth (and spots) to the contrary, and he proves it each day by living despite Silva’s best attempts to the contrary.

        Although most people seem to believe that James needs action, sex, alcohol, and the constant threat of a messy demise to sustain his existence, he knows how to appreciate the smaller joys of life. It’s why he bought a flat instead of living in a hotel (because being under said constant threat of a messy demise pays handsomely, after all) and knows how to cook (not that anyone can tell from the way Q acts as if he’s two seconds away from destroying any kitchen device he touches, like he possesses some very explosive Midas touch) and clean up after himself. There’s a simple comfort in the everyday, and in a world of constant threats and danger, it can be too easy to lose sight of what they were trying to protect.

        But on the day that Q finally rewards him with a sincere smile, for a reason James knows he will not remember, he is certain that he will never have to worry about forgetting what he is trying to protect now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have… no idea what happened with this chapter. The first scene was actually quite easy to write, but the rest of it was a struggle. It seemed like nothing I did was going right (and I’m still not entirely sure this version qualifies either); the first draft felt like it was going backwards story-wise, the second felt like it was going too fast, and the third was just at a standstill. I honestly didn’t manage to finish the basic draft of it until last night, and then had to do the rewrite of the last two scenes and the typo check today. Again, I’m not sure I’m entirely happy with the quality of this chapter, but I’m satisfied with the direction it went. It took a while to figure out what was right for the characters, but once I did it got a bit easier. I'm just not sure it's right still.
> 
> But unfortunately (and assuming I don't give in and rewrite this entire chapter), because this chapter took so long there will have to be another break next week. Have to puzzle through where this chapter leaves me, as well as try not to completely freak out about the fact that the next chapter is the last one (because wow, it has been years since I finished anything of this length). Thank you again for all of your patience; you’ve all been fantastic, really.


	13. Frederick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“You needed to know. You needed to know what it was like. You needed to know so that you could save yourself because you deserve better than to be tied to a world that doesn’t appreciate you for what you are. Never forget, Frederick, that you are not theirs. You are so much more than that.”_

        Life happens.

        There had been a time when he hadn’t thought it possible. He had watched life go by, and thought it unfair that the rest of the world could blithely continue on when he himself was at a standstill, trapped in a time he would have given anything to forget. But deep down he knew that, just like before, life waits for no one, and his resentment was childish at best.

        It hadn’t stopped him.

        Q doesn’t bother counting the days, between then and now. Both time and distance separate him from the island, but although that part of him is no longer his defining feature, it is still a constant presence. It will always be; like China, it’s engrained far deeper than any physical scar could ever go. But at least now, he is finally remembering that he isn’t limited to that person he was not so very long ago.

        Another constant presence in his life is a certain double-o agent, who despite all logic is still here. Although he doesn’t trust him – he can’t, not before, not now, not ever again – he recognizes that James Bond has given him a chance in more ways than one, although he has no idea why that is. Sometimes, he is certain that Bond doesn’t know either, especially when he thinks back to that conversation they’d had, in which Bond had confirmed his suspicion that Mansfield was the reason for the agent’s presence.

        But Bond wouldn’t be Bond if he didn’t surprise people, and his revelation that she had sent the agent for reasons other than the obvious….

        Well. That required a serious suspension of belief, that was for sure.

        He has no reason to believe Bond. 007 had certainly admitted as much. But Q has always had a nasty habit of taking people at their word even when it was obviously bad for his health, and this is no exception. And while a part of him had wanted – would always want, really – to act on what he knows, to do what Silva had _wanted_ … he knows he will not. He isn’t sure why because once again, he doesn’t really _have_ a good reason. He had meant it when he told Silva that the man had broken him of that particular character flaw, and yet here he is. Again. He is starting to wonder what it will take for him to learn better already.

        The easiest thing to do would be to blame Bond. It’s a convenient way of shifting blame, which Q has always been a proponent of, and has the added benefit of being true: Bond is a reason for his decision. Perhaps he is even _the_ reason, although not in the way Bond probably thinks. If he was to make an educated guess as to what Bond thinks, based on the man’s file, it would probably have to do with not wanting to be shot. And while that is an incentive, especially since 007 had proven himself to be quite an effective killing machine back on the island, it will never be a driving force behind his decisions. Because like it or not, living is no longer as high a priority for him (this is a fact he keeps well away from psych and pretty much everyone else, although sometimes he watches Bond and thinks that just maybe, the man understands that sentiment far too well).

        Q of all people knows that the files MI6 keep, detailed as they are, are of little practical use when it comes to really understanding a person. Pieces of paper compiled by the psych department and irritated department heads tend to have less utility than living with a person, even if he has spent about half that time lost in his own head and the other half resenting said person with a vengeance. But despite the less than ideal circumstances, he thinks he has a better understanding of what drives 007 now. And based on that understanding, he would guess that Bond thinks that his decision not to turn traitor is because of what Bond had told him during their heart-to-heart conversation.

        In which case, Bond would still be charmingly wrong because he had made his choice long before.

        Just as Bond owes him nothing, he too owes Bond nothing. While there is the possibility that Bond might have been here regardless of what Mansfield had requested or for some reason other than to monitor a potential threat to the safety of MI6, the fact of the matter is that she had asked and Q had been ( _is_ ) viewed as a threat, so that hypothetical scenario need not be entertained.

        Yet still, Q feels a disturbing, wholly illogical desire not to let the man down. At a time when he thought it impossible to ever care about anything again, James Bond had been there despite his very best efforts to make him leave. And whether it was driven by duty or loyalty or some equally undefinable _thing_ , it still required a quality that he had come to believe did not exist for people in their line of work. And that mattered. He might not know why but it does, even though he also knows he would be far better off if it hadn’t.

        Because the choice he is making isn’t just a matter of deciding not to take revenge on a woman who is dead and more importantly, has never made a secret of her loyalties. It is a matter of returning to a world which rewards that type of calculation, who cherishes those who can consider the bigger picture over the persons who would be ruined in the process. Q has never put his country before his people; his loyalty was to those who had made his life worth living when it would have been so easy not to bother trying: Major Boothroyd, Moneypenny, Tanner, his colleagues in Q-branch, and… yes, even (or perhaps especially) James Bond, who he isn’t even sure he likes but has found himself caring for, nevertheless.

        It’s not trust. He doesn’t trust, with the sole exception of Boothroyd, but trust is not the same thing as caring and it’s not a prerequisite either. And he does care about the individuals, not those amorphous values that MI6 is sworn to protect, and he knows that will probably get him in trouble sooner than later. Eventually, he will have to make the same calculation that Mansfield did, and he won’t be able to do what she did. While he understands her, recognizes that she sincerely believed she had made the correct decision, and may even one day accept that she might very well have been justified in her choice, he knows too intimately what the costs are.

        And it isn’t just him, although that is a damn big part. It’s Tiago Rodriguez. He doesn’t feel sorry for the man, and he never will. But he knows that whatever had happened to him in that cell, it hadn’t broken him. No, it was the knowledge of what Mansfield had done to him that had destroyed him so completely. Because unlike Q, Tiago couldn’t see that bigger picture. He couldn’t understand why someone would give up someone they cared for in order to serve the greater cause. And that betrayal had rained destruction upon them all because in the end, the past always caught up to the present, and it was just a matter of who else would be caught up as collateral damage.

        That is what he is, after all. Collateral damage. Despite what Bond had suggested, it was never really about him. He, like Bond, was just one part in that bigger picture, a convenient… thing for Silva’s obsession to latch onto. Just how much lasting damage the man had caused is ultimately up to him. While there were some things he could never escape – the nights, when he tossed and turned as he tried to block out the soft whispers and possessive touch; the days, when he looked around and wondered why he bothered – what Silva had wanted from him is not one of those things. Because Bond is right; he is more than that, but it wasn’t Bond that had taught him that.

        It was Silva.

* * *

_He walks as if in a dream._

_To some extent, he understands what is happening. He understands that 007 is here, appropriately horrified by the no doubt pathetic sight before him. He understands that Sévérine is dead, and that Silva is responsible. And he understands that it is his turn now, although understanding and caring are two wholly different concepts, and it is so very hard to care right now._

_He lets Silva guide him, too tired to do anything else, and allows Silva to arrange him to the man’s liking. It’s a little more difficult than usual because it requires standing rather than passively taking, but Silva is aware of his limitations and manages to set him against the broken statue in a way that requires minimal effort on his part to stay standing. Once the man is sure he will not fall, a shot glass is carefully placed on his head._

_Q immediately starts to panic, unsure if he can keep the glass on his head. The fear of what Silva will do to him if he should let it fall is a strong motivator to keep as still as possible, but it might not be enough. Over the last weeks, he has learned that he can try as hard as he like and still fail miserably, and he cannot even consider the consequences should that be the case here. Even if he doesn’t think Silva can do much more to him than what has already been done, the man has proven himself capable of surprising him in twisted and horrible ways. He doesn’t want to know what more can be done, especially not when he is barely holding on as is, and just the thought of it is devastating._

_Silva knows it. Q can see that, even if he is half-blind without his glasses and almost completely out of his mind, and before he can think better of it he finds himself speaking._

* * *

        Q isn’t generous when it comes to giving credit, having spent so much of his life clawing for every scrap of respect and recognition for his abilities. It’s an unfortunate side effect of looking a decade younger than he actually is, and combined with the fact that he was already a decade (or two) younger than most people at MI6, it had made getting acknowledgment for his work even more difficult (although that was set off to some extent by Major Boothroyd’s influence).

        But Q likes to think that he is also fair, and gives credit when it is due even if he doesn’t want to. And when it comes to psych, he _really_ does not want to, yet even he has to acknowledge (very grudgingly) that Riley isn’t willing to give up on him. He doesn’t know if she’s stubborn or simply masochistic, but what he does know is that she could have easily been rid of him by writing down what he had said during their second session. Except she hadn’t, continuing to conduct their sessions like that had never happened, and it is for that reason alone he hasn’t infected her electronic devices with a myriad of imaginative viruses.

        However, that doesn’t mean it isn’t difficult to remember that reason every time she opens her mouth.

        He’s getting ready to leave their latest session – his patience had been sorely tested when they had tried the damned word association games again; what _was_ it with them and those infernal things? – when Riley suddenly observes, “You have been spending a lot of time with 007.”

        He pauses, not sure where this is going but automatically wary whenever the doctors say anything of substance. “I think,” he corrects lightly, “it would be more accurate to say that he has been spending a lot of time with me.”

        Riley, unfortunately, is used to his attempts to dodge her questions, and is not so easily dissuaded. There is also the problem that it wasn’t a question at all, since she already knows that Bond watches all of his sessions and they leave together. What she takes from that, he doesn’t even want to know; probably she just wants to see what his reaction is.

        She purses her lips, but rather than make her look crankier than usual, she actually appears… concerned. “It’s dangerous, getting attached to someone like James Bond.” _Someone unstable_ , goes unsaid. The blind leading the blind.

        And she’s right. That’s what he likes least about her; it isn’t easy to brush aside her words those few times she occasionally says something that makes sense.

        Even though he knows she’s right, it doesn’t feel that way. Years ago, he had let Major Boothroyd distract him from what happened in China, leaving him all the more vulnerable to Silva. (That wasn’t Boothroyd’s fault but his own for letting it happen, although he doesn’t know what other choice he had considering how that distraction was the only thing keeping him together at the time.) This time though, Bond is not just a mere distraction. Bond doesn’t give him puzzles to solve, but is simply a presence that keeps him… grounded. He isn’t sure how to explain it, and right now, he doesn’t feel like he has to. Especially not to her.

        “Yes, well, we’ve seen what good you lot have done me,” he replies before he can stop and think about the wisdom of this move. He really shouldn’t be pushing psych any more, not after they’ve already overlooked his past transgressions, but he can’t stop the unpleasant smile from spreading across his face as he suggests kindly, “So bugger off already.”

* * *

        “They think you’re bad for me,” he informs Bond when they get back to his flat. The trip back had been silent, except for their debate over which takeaway to get (he doesn’t care what Bond says about being able to cook; he still doesn’t trust the man with anything more complicated than an egg timer). It was supposed to be Bond’s turn to choose but he had seemed distracted, and Q has a feeling he already knows what that was about. So his statement is less to let Bond know what happened and more as pretense to ask, “Do you think they’re right?”

        Bond doesn’t pause from his unpacking the curries. “Possibly.”

        “Isn’t this where you’re supposed to convince me otherwise?”

        “That’s not my job.”

        “This isn’t either,” he points out, and Bond neither admits nor denies that.

        This time it’s Q’s turn to pretend that they’re doing nothing more than exchanging the usual pleasantries, pulling out the cutlery and their preferred mugs. He can’t help but marvel at how coordinated their actions have become, especially considering that he hasn’t exactly been pulling his own weight. Bond has never pushed him to help around the flat, instead quietly giving him space and letting him decide what he felt up to doing. They have also never openly discussed their living arrangement, not even when he had finally given into the inevitable and made space for Bond’s ridiculously expensive clothing in the guest bedroom.

        He had been meaning to clean out that closet anyway, although he had never expected to do so under these circumstances. But then, he had also never considered the possibility of someone moving in with him, having become so good at keeping people out. But then that would mean acknowledging that Bond has moved in with him, and while for all practical purposes that is the case, it’s just plain bizarre when he considers it for more than half a second.

        Bond doesn’t seem like the kind of person who “moves in,” and Q isn’t the kind of person who lets them. Their actions defy expectations and reason, but here they are. Riley is right; they really are the blind leading the blind, even if they seem to exist with each other so well. But sometimes Q just feels so confused because he doesn’t really understand what is going on or where they are going, and although he understands that there doesn’t have to be a destination, shouldn’t there at least be something? Because as surprisingly pleasant as this domesticity is, it’s not _them_ ; he’s never spent so much time in his flat and he doubts that Bond has ever been tied down so long either. There has to be something else for them to be, and although he doesn’t know what it is, he knows it’s not this.

        “I don’t think of this as my job,” Bond says finally. “Not everything is about the job.”

        Q tries not to look too openly skeptical. He probably fails, and his failure is no doubt compounded by him replying, “I have a file that says that everything you do is for patriotic duty.”

        He earns a shrug in response. “Most things,” Bond admits easily. “But not all.”

        “Why not this one?”

        Bond gives him a long look, “I’ve already told you.”

        He starts to say that Bond has a highly selective memory, if that is what he thinks. He starts to say that Bond hasn’t told him because they both know that Bond doesn’t know, and even he is not suicidal enough to hazard a guess at what is going on in a double-o agent’s brain. He starts to say, but then he stops because he realizes that it doesn’t really matter. Reasons and intentions are meaningless without actions to back them up, and the actions here have been clear. What Bond is trying to do, what Bond has done… that is clear. “So you have.”

        Bond doesn’t have an attractive “surprised” face, and it disappears quickly before Q can pass judgment on it. He wonders if in one of his past lives, he would have found it attractive, that small moment where pretenses slide away and all that is left is the person underneath in all of their imperfect, flaw-ridden glory. He doesn’t know what he thinks of it now, and decides for both their sakes that enough has been said on this particular topic for the day. Possibly for the rest of their lives because Bond is what Bond does, and that should be enough for him. Because he is tired, truly he is, of trying to guess what people are playing at. Bond might not be forthcoming but he has never actively hidden what he is doing, and that honesty is refreshing.

        Bond is a trigger, a blunt instrument, a means to an end and nothing more than that. He doesn’t try to be more, and in the process he doesn’t hide what he is, which perhaps is simply all Q needs right now.

        “I suppose,” he finally offers when Bond doesn’t say anything, “that this means you do not agree with their assessment. Why else would you be here? I don’t think the amount you’re saving on rent is worth the costs of cleaning all those nice shirts of yours that I have ruined in the past weeks.”

        “Those were very expensive shirts,” Bond agrees, his words bland. And Q knows that Bond understands that no more answers are needed, at least not on this, and he is almost able to smile at Bond’s willingness to play along.

        “At least you understand how we feel when you needlessly blow up the nice machinery we give you.”

        “It’s never needless,” Bond replies a touch defensively, and if it wasn’t Bond and if it wasn’t Q and if it wasn’t for their pasts and all of the demons that lie between them, the man might have been sulking. But then he shifts uncomfortably before admitting, “Speaking of which, a Komodo dragon ate your gun.”

        Q stares for a very long time before he manages to get out, “What?”

        “It was very useful before then,” Bond tries to reassure him, and he isn’t sure if he wants to laugh or cry. It seems so long ago that he was handing over a gun, a radio, and a plea to bring them back in one piece. He barely even remembered that, and the loss of a gun seems so insignificant compared to what has occurred since. Still, just the thought that his tech was _eaten by a giant lizard_ is almost enough to send him into hysterics.

        He settles instead for a rueful laugh as he shakes his head. “Only you, 007.” He isn’t referring to the statistical unlikelihood of Bond’s destructive tendencies, impressive as that is. But despite logic, reason, common sense, and basic survival instincts, this time he is unable to hold back his smile as he realizes, not for the first time, that while Silva might have told him what he should have already known, it is Bond who showed him how. “Only you.”

* * *

_“Please,” he begs for the first time since Silva had found him on the floor where those men had left him, shaking and hysteric and so goddamn_ lost _. He hadn’t had the strength to ask after that (or more to the point, he hadn’t had the strength to be rejected again); he’d asked so many times before and every time… no. No, he couldn’t do it anymore, and he hadn’t, but he is so close. And hadn’t he promised? Hadn’t Silva promised that this would be over, and Q had clung to that promise, clung to that belief that he wouldn’t have to feel this way anymore because that was all he wanted now and he doesn’t care how it is achieved as long as it stops, and Silva had promised and the words are spilling from him because this was all he had left and even though he should know better it is_ all he has left _. “You promised. You promised this would be over, you said this would be over, please, just_ please _-”_

 _But promises mean little to men like Silva, and all he knows is despair when he gets a shake of the head. He wants to scream, to cry, to feel_ nothing _, but then Silva is placing a finger on his lips and he knows better than to speak. Even now, Silva can hurt him, through actions or words or a single touch, and he isn’t sure how much more he can bear without falling apart completely (but it’s too late for that already, isn’t it?). “Shh, shh, there’s no need for that, Frederick. I promised you, did I not? And you should know by now that I always keep my promises.”_

* * *

        Life happens, but sometimes Q doesn’t. There are moments still where he stops, unable to move or think or _breathe_ because living is too overwhelming. No matter how many times he reminds himself that Silva is dead, that doesn’t mean he is free of the man. As long as he can remember what has happened, and there is no good way of not, he will always have those moments.

        Throughout all of it is Bond, a presence he doesn’t know what he would do without. He doesn’t like being so dependent on anyone, but this goes beyond need and it is far preferable to the alternative. Bond is a reminder that his life is about something more than nightmares, that he can still make something of himself. And so maybe he is developing a permanent pain in his back because most nights he still cannot sleep on a bed, and maybe he still wakes Bond with his screaming, and maybe there will always be pieces of him that are lost.

        But he is at the point where he is able to live around those moments, rather than the other way around, and that is something he can be grateful for.

* * *

        One morning, Bond finds him leaning against the kitchen counter, one hand clinging desperately for support and the other clenched around his phone. “Q? Are you-?”

        “They cleared me,” he says without preamble, fighting back the inappropriate urge to laugh at 007’s concern. His head is still spinning, unable to process the information and the sudden realization that psych is obviously short for “psychopaths” because good lord, he had thought them mad when they cleared him last time, and somehow they have managed to once again prove him so very wrong. He takes in a deep breath, knowing he sounds just as insane as the doctors, and tries to clarify, “That was Tanner. They cleared me. I can go back. If I want.”

        Bond’s expression doesn’t change. “I see.”

        “You think it’s a mistake?” There is no anger or accusation behind the words, just simple curiosity. Even if he tells himself that he doesn’t need validation from James Bond of all people, he still wants to know because he himself is wondering if some type of error was made. He half expects the phone in his hand to start ringing, and to have Tanner inform him that there had been a misunderstanding because it just seems so… _impossible_. He had more or less told Riley to go and fuck herself after spending another session antagonizing her, and instead of being hauled back for another round of extensive mental health testing, she had signed off on his return. Considering how stubborn she is, he doubts she was just trying to get rid of him (especially when there are other ways of doing that, none of which involve pretending that he is capable of going back to work), but then he isn’t sure what she is playing at.

        “No.”

        He isn’t sure whether to feel reassured by this. After all, this is Bond, and two things that are decidedly _not_ associated with the agent are common sense and good judgment when it comes to mental fitness. But now that psych has shown their true colors, maybe no one is in a position to be making such assessments. “But you don’t think I’m fine.”

        “I don’t think you will ever be.” Bond is only confirming what they are both thinking, and if they know it, shouldn’t the rest of the world? “But then, who is in our line of work?”

        Q shrugs, still trying to calm himself. “Tanner seems pretty stable.”

        Bond smiles at that, weak as the joke is. “Tanner is an android. It’s MI6’s worst kept secret.”

        “That would explain a lot.”

        “It would, wouldn’t it?” Bond muses, but the smile has slipped from his face. It would be so easy to escape into light banter, but it wouldn’t do either of them any good. Q is sure that is why Bond continues, “Do you want to?”

        “What, go back?” he asks, stalling for time that he knows he doesn’t have.

        Bond is generous enough not to call him out on his pathetically transparent tactics, but doesn’t indulge in them. “Yes.”

        He sighs, setting the phone down on the counter and turning to face Bond. As always, the man looks impeccable even though he isn’t wearing a ridiculously expensive suit. But Bond was never about the suit or the gadgets; it is his character  that sets him apart, impeccable and alert, prepared for anyone and anything at any time. It’s a sharp reminder that Bond is wasted here, as he could be off using his many skills in the name of Queen and country rather than minding after someone who is, in the end, disposable. And it’s not that he’s feeling sorry for himself (he’s done plenty of that already), but that is simply what he is.

        They’re all disposable: Bond, Silva, himself… they’ve all been given up for dead by MI6, and yet here the two of them are while Tiago Rodriguez’s name is stripped off the wall. The only difference between them all is how they came back, after being disposed of. One for revenge, one for duty, and one for… something. It isn’t revenge or duty, but even if it is mundane in comparison, it is his reason. It might not be good and it might not make sense, but it is _his_.

        “I’m not sure what else I have to do,” he admits. It sounds pathetic, even to his ears; surely he could have spent _some_ time in the recent days thinking about what else he could do with himself? Except when he had, he simply could not envision himself doing anything other than returning to MI6 (well, either that or going rogue, but that is a different story). For all of his adult life, MI6 has been all he has. His family is dead, as is his cat, and he never did manage to make time to cultivate friendships outside of work. He supposes he could find a new, less dangerous job (although the very thought of preparing a CV and scouring job listings is more than a touch absurd), especially now that he knows that working at MI6 is no guarantee of protection. But he has always known that, which makes it all the harder to justify leaving now.

        A wry laugh. If anyone understands that particular sentiment, it is Bond. “That seems to be something we have in common then.”

        “Perhaps one day we will know better.”

        “Perhaps,” Bond agrees, without any real conviction. They really are something, the two of them, going back even when there is no reason to. It’s utter insanity, but neither seem able to break the habit. Q has a feeling that only death will teach them better, although whether it’s the physical, permanent kind or the one Tiago Rodriguez underwent, only time will tell.

        “And you?” he asks before he can stop himself. Because he has to know, even if he doesn’t want to. “Don’t you have something else you can do as well?”

        There is an awkward silence, in which he tries not to fidget like a small child, before Bond says, “As opposed to…?”

        “Being here,” he replies with surprising bluntness. He isn’t sure where he is going with this, and yet he adds, “You’re not obligated to be here anymore.”

        Bond frowns as he points out, “I was never obligated to be here.”

        “You know what I mean,” he says quietly. Q doesn’t bother to elaborate because he knows Bond understands what he is deliberately not saying. Now that he is… cleared for duty, and will certainly return, there is no legitimate reason for the agent to be here anymore. Q might be arrogant, but even he knows that his neuroses do _not_ comprise of a legitimate reason, or at least not one that justifies what he has no right to ask for.

        “Your being cleared…” Bond hesitates, and if Q did not know better (or was more delusional), he might have thought the agent was nervous. “It doesn’t have to change anything.”

        He feels compelled to correct Bond, even though he knows the man is just trying to be kind. “It changes everything.”

        “Only if you want it to.” Q has to suppress the urge to shiver at the intensity in Bond’s eyes as the agent looks him over. “Do you want it to?”

        It’s such a cliché, but there is just something about Bond that makes him feel like every part of him is exposed. It isn’t like Silva, who took vicious pleasure in revealing each and every one of his weaknesses with a single look, but a silent affirmation that he doesn’t have to hide himself any longer.

        So he knows that he doesn’t have to say it. Bond is not so cruel and he does not need to hear the words because he knows, of _course_ he already knows, yet Q finds himself looking away in shame as he admits, “I want you to stay.”

        Q knows he is being selfish. Bond has fulfilled his promise to Mansfield, and should be allowed to return to his life. He doesn’t owe Q anything, especially not this. What Q is asking for is more than Bond was ever required to do, and yet he asks.

        He also recognizes the irony of his request, given that a few weeks back he had been ordering Bond to leave, but even then he had known, deep down, that he needed Bond. Bond had known that too, which is why the agent had not left. But that need is not so apparent now, what with MI6 clearing him, yet still the thought of being left alone in his flat is terrifying.

        As soon as he thinks that, he knows that is not quite correct. It’s not fear that makes him ask Bond to stay, or at least it’s not the main factor. Bond… Bond offers him stability, and in the process makes him feel a little less _wrong_. It isn’t just the nightmares that he has to worry about, but the sometimes overwhelming feeling that it just isn’t worth getting up during the day. He doesn’t know if it’s Bond specifically or if anyone would have sufficed, but just having that presence is a reminder that he still has reasons to be.

        These things, he does not say. It is difficult to stay silent because as hard as it is to put these thoughts into coherent words, the thought of letting go of the person who is keeping him together is even harder to bear. But he has no right to guilt Bond into staying, especially when he has nothing to offer in return. He wishes he did because he _is_ scared of what he will be without the man, but this arrangement has been one-sided from the start. There isn’t anything he can do to change that, but if only he could think of something, perhaps-

        “Then I’ll stay.”

        The words are said so matter-of-factly that it takes a ridiculously long time for Q to understand. A tiny part of him feels indignant at Bond’s bemused expression, but the rest of him is twisting with guilt because Bond shouldn’t have to do this. Mansfield and MI6 and most certainly Q never should have asked this of him, but before he can try to take back his words, a hand rests on his arm.

        He automatically flinches back, even though the hand is not possessive or demanding. But the hand is not removed, and when Q finally finds the courage to look up again, Bond repeats, “I’ll stay. For as long as you want me to.”

        There are so many things he could and should say, yet they all seem so inadequate in comparison. Instead, Q places his own hand on Bond’s. He tries not to overanalyze the implications, as Bond wouldn’t know that even before Silva and the island and all of his doubts, he had never been one to initiate contact. He isn’t (well, wasn’t) adverse to touch, and there are times when (he needs something, _anything_ , to replace Silva’s hands) he must have it, but he rarely reaches out in this way. He rarely _can_.

        He has a feeling that Bond understands already, so there is not much more he can do but accept what is being offered to him and say, “Thank you.”

* * *

_The words are said in that soothing tone Silva uses when he cries, a false comfort to disguise the brutality of his actions. The words too are a lie because Silva doesn’t keep his promises unless they involve making him wish desperately to stop being. They certainly do nothing to calm his fears of what awaits him, and it is only those fears that keep him from shaking and causing the glass to fall when a hand brushes his hair back and Silva leans in close._

_“I am sorry that it had to be this way,” Silva tells him, and the sincerity and sadness shock him into stillness. The whisper of Silva’s breath is far more intimate than sex, and he knows that this is what he is meant to remember. This is the lesson, the one Silva has been preparing him for, the one thing he is to take from the man’s actions. This is what Silva wants him to carry forever, marking him more permanently than broken fingers or scars. He cannot see Silva’s face but somehow he knows what the man’s expression is as Silva whispers his final parting words._

_“You needed to know. You needed to know what it was like. You needed to know so that you could save yourself because you deserve better than to be tied to a world that doesn’t appreciate you for what you are. Never forget, Frederick, that you are not theirs. You are so much more than that.”_

* * *

        “I know,” he tells Silva, and when Bond gives him an odd look he doesn’t bother explaining. Because this is something that is his alone to bear, and he knows Bond will respect that, even if he does not understand it.

        Frederick will never know what they would have been, if not for Silva and MI6 and everything else life has to throw at them. But he does know that this is what they are now, and this is who he is. He is defined by his past, and that includes China and Silva and all of his scars, and he knows he will never be whole again. He will always be fundamentally wrong, but wrong doesn’t feel like the end of the world anymore. Because he understands now that he is, in the end, more than what Silva or MI6 intended of him. He is himself, and James Bond is his reminder of that easily forgotten but all too important fact.

        It might not be much, but to him, it is everything he needs to live his life again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some final wrap-up notes.
> 
> On Silva: Silva was very, very hard. When I first started this story, he was the stereotypical sociopath-slash-general asshole. But somewhere in the process of him completely breaking Q down, he lost that. It’s strange because that was the point where he was most cruel, and yet that was also the moment his motivations changed. In a way, he went from simply blaming Q for what happened to seeing a part of Tiago in him. Beyond his original plan (to set Q up to be betrayed, but to keep him in a position to take down MI6 from the inside), I think he also didn’t want Q to end up like Tiago: someone who was loyal, for no discernible reason, and who paid for it. He wanted Q to be like Silva, someone who “knows better” and could be more than a pawn for MI6. In a completely twisted, fucked up way, Silva was trying to save Q from himself since in Silva’s mind, it was inevitable that MI6 would betray him.
> 
> On Q and Bond: I never planned on them getting together, and they’re not. Q’s not in any position to do so, and Bond knows better. They might, in the future, and it’s set up for that possibility. But the post-island chapters were never about romance; it was about Bond being there for Q when he needed someone, and helping him in a way that Q didn’t get before. Because even before Silva got him, Q already had his cracks, and Silva just blew them wide open. So what was needed was more fundamental, a reminder that Q had a choice to be something other than what Silva or MI6 wanted of him. Q comes back not for revenge, duty, or even because he has nothing better to do; he does it for himself. Where he goes from here, and whether Bond follows, is another story.
> 
> And of course, my sincerest thank you’s to each and every one of you. I joke that this story reads like an extended babble, but it’s sadly true. So for everyone who has left your lovely feedback and kudos, or who managed to get through this story at all, thank you. I honestly haven’t done any creative writing in nearly five years, and I took so much pleasure out of writing this story (while at the same time feeling like the shittiest person in the universe for doing what I did to the characters). So I do hope you have enjoyed, and thank you again for getting through this.


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